


Time of Day

by Anonymous



Series: Time of Day [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathtub Sex, Blindfolds, Cardassian Anatomy, Complete, Dressing Room Sex, Hand Feeding, Julian is Indeed a Light Dom, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Painplay, Porn With Plot, Restraints, Riding, Role Reversal, Silence Kink, Submissive Garak, Tender Sex, Vibrators, Wax Play, Whipping, that's a Thing? Great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-01-30 09:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12650883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I would request it as plainly and routinely as you might the time of day, Doctor.”On Garak's longstanding relationship with pain, Doctor Bashir's convictions against it, and how this gradually manages to balance for both of them.





	1. 02:43

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Myrida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrida/gifts).



The subject had not been broached by either one of them in several years.  Bashir had heard about it for the first time, dealt with it, and then Garak had rather shoved the topic out of his hands, and he was reluctant to pick it up again.  It was traumatic, and Bashir did not want to trigger those feelings in his friend _again_ , after so many months of absence.  How was he to know it was _always_ in the forefront of Garak’s mind, anyway?  It had never _left_ ; only the implant itself had.

“I would request it as plainly and routinely as you might the time of day, Doctor.”

“I’d…” Bashir faltered, unable to come up with an argument based around that point, so he made his own, “And you thought I’d need to hear about that _right after_ kissing me, Garak, for the _first time_?”

Ah, but Garak’s timing was as precise and intentional as ever.  He found a way to enjoy this momentary indulgence before addressing the discomfort that loomed like a heavy raincloud between them, and if it was enough to end proceedings, he would be perfectly satisfied that his years of hunting and chasing concluded in such a sweet, gentle, warm, brief, torturous kiss.  His mind elaborated, but did not wander.  It never wandered…

“The truth is, Doctor,” he said, voice low, “I happen to _trust_ you with these matters.  When would a better time present itself?  Surely you wouldn’t prefer I wait until you are penetrating me, as I _know_ you intend to do this evening…”

“ _Garak_!”

“You’ve only given me a brief window of time to address this, Doctor.  It _must_ occur between you initiating a sexual - or at least a romantic - encounter with me, after all these _years,_ and the beginning of the intimate act itself.  At my estimate, we have mere _minutes_.”

Bashir frowned at his barren wine glass, and noted with reluctant pride that Garak was still in the same position on top of him, straddling him, but carefully keeping only their legs in contact.  Waiting, watching.  And his quarters were always so invitingly warm, so charmingly decorated and maintained… Bashir had felt right at home, and let Garak lull him into this situational submission.  

“You may have prolonged it a little there, Garak,” he admitted.  “Was I supposed to… was that meant to _arouse_ me?”

“It arouses _me_.”

“So I gathered…”

But Garak could only hide behind the maze-walls for so long before he made it to the end, before he either escaped or found himself happily lost in the middle and trapped with Bashir, who always followed him into such puzzles.  Sometimes willingly, sometimes not.

“I mean,” Bashir steadied his tone and began again, “it isn’t a completely unheard of request, but it doesn’t usually crop up on first… whatever you’re calling this… first _encounters_.”

“I did worry that it wouldn’t appeal to you…”

“No, it _does_ , but… I don’t know, Garak, not with you like _this_.  But you really do want it, don’t you?”

“I _need_ it, Doctor.  But not if it will make you uncomfortable.  I’ll go burden someone else with my trust and most intimate, hard-won secrets.”

“Now, I’m not going to let you pressure me.”

“Never, Doctor.  In fact, I’d very much prefer the opposite…”

*****

_E Garak_

_Personal Log_

_0243 hours_

 

I have finally heard more details about the Federation becoming involved with Bajor.  They have made no claim to be neutral, but their Withdrawal policies are disappointingly tame.  I have a difficult time imagining soldiers of my race leaving so willingly, so… spinelessly.   

The Bajorans on the Station are not entirely satisfied, because I and a few others are still here, and I have not been approached with a relocation document of any kind.  They did not like to hear that at all. 

I was not looking forward to the inevitable beating that would accompany my dinner until I recalled my otherwise-dormant wire.  How fortunate!  I went more confidently to Quark’s Bar that evening, news of the Withdrawal in mind, tucked neatly beside the processor of my pain.   

In some perverse twist, I found myself indeed _willing_ to be _spineless_ , and I simply waited for a group of miners to approach me after their end-of-shift.  There was no need to speak a word, either in provocation or in my own defense.  The group’s leader, some raggedy and darkly-dusted man, gave the initial punch to my jaw, and I hardly felt it.  Clearly he was never in a Resistance cell; he had no knowledge of targeting _un_ ridged areas on my body.  Maybe he _would_ need a little of my instruction… 

“Do you see any armor?” I led him along much more gently than he deserved, “I’m a civilian just like you…” 

“You are _nothing_ like me.” 

Then he held my shoulders firmly and threw me down from my seat, and one of his companions kicked my ribs until I was sure at least one was fractured.  And it felt _wonderful_.  

There was a faint humming in my head, a little buzzing sensation that tingled down to my aching abdomen, before swelling up into my chula.  If one of them were to touch this newly-sensitized ridge… 

I was slapped there, as another man knelt over me and held my head down, exposing my neck.   

“I cannot live with the thought of _you_ being allowed to go home before I do,” the leader spat at me, “unless it’s in a casket.”  

I cursed Odo’s well-earned reputation, as he arrived to break up the fight before I could be damaged any further.  Of course, I insisted it was never a fight to begin with, but, as he was usually correct in assuming, a Cardassian was ‘never completely pliant in such matters.’  I was delighted to have given him such an erroneous reading. 

When he deposited me at the Hospital Wing, I was feeling dizzy and alive and _strange_.  

The last remaining doctor aboard was Cardassian, and I had taken to flirting with her specifically to annoy Dukat (before I learned he had his own preference for Bajoran attention, more perverse than my own.)  It was not often that I had genuine cause to see her.  As my wire clicked off, it left three things: my wounds residually numb, itself undetectable by her scanners, and the rest of my body puzzlingly aroused. 

She touched my neck when she examined it, tilting my chin out of her way, saying nothing until I did.  I had barely recited my name, let alone a description of my injuries. 

“At home,” Doctor Yos’sar said, like the word was a hot stick to prod a fire with, “I have two lovers already.  I have no interest in taking a third--” 

“I merely meant--” 

“Remove your tunic.” 

“I appreciate you clarifying your intentions, I’m sure, but is it really… necessary?” I protested, but ultimately took off my shirt as directed. 

“You tell me!  I’ve never _seen_ a chula so swollen,” she reiterated, and I blushed.  Oh, she thought I found _her_ attractive, rather than the abuse I had prescribed myself. “Can you remain professional this time, or should I call for the male nurse?” 

_Oh_! 

“For all you know, I might like him even _more_ …” 

She rolled her eyes at this, and pressed her fingertips into the bruises on my stomach, testing the resistance.   

I was sent home with a thicker, more modest vest she borrowed from a nurse’s locker, a cream for my bruises, _three_ mended ribs, and an even stronger feeling of dizziness.  

Really, I never _was_ interested in Yos’sar, but as I tried to settle down in my bed, I was imagining a scene of us - myself, and her, and her two more respectable lovers - engaging in the fight I had suffered through this evening.  Bajorans were replaced by Cardassians, and I was more humiliated at my response because it was so well understood.  I let her kick me, and I everted in spite of myself, and while she admonished me she _rode_ me, and I had never felt so sore.  My heartbeat throbbed through my chula, and she hit it hard, to punish my reaction. 

Experimentally, I slapped at my bruises, and forced myself to evert into my other hand.  I replayed the scene in my mind, and I tugged myself desperately into release, giving intermittent pressure to the bruises and stifling every desire I had to vocalise.  Who would I be worshipping, myself?  Yos’sar?  A group of ill-informed _Bajorans_?  Oh, it was shameful, but it felt better, independently, than the rest of my life had in many years.

My entire body continued humming well into the night, and I decided against using the numbing cream on myself.  This type of pain was _much_ better, and a type of numbness in itself.


	2. 12:30

_E Garak_

_Personal Log_

_1230 hours_

 

I was not given any warning about the surrendering of Terok Nor.  I expected the military presence would fade out slowly - only a few commanding officers remained - but I awoke one morning to find everyone gone.  Everyone but me. 

There may have been clues, and I may have missed them, but it could not be undone. 

Yos’sar came by two days ago to collect the vest she loaned me, explaining that the medical unit would be leaving immediately.  I had a strong urge to proposition her, but thankfully I decided against it.  Clearly, I would need to find another way to trigger my wire. 

It had, of course, been _part of me_ for years already, but I felt it becoming a mental part, too.  It was morphing into a need, a compulsion, an addiction.  It was blurring the boundaries of pain and pleasure, as was its original intention… at the beginning, it had not been sexual, but it needed to progress _somehow_.  I assigned this to my own exceptional mental discipline; how _good_ of me to return to pleasuring myself - a chore I had neglected for my own safety and focus during previous assignments - rather than harming myself!  My very essence has always been self-preservation, and I felt a deeply reverberating sense of relief, that I would not need to go seeking fights anymore.  The Bajorans aboard could still be lured into giving them, despite the new Federation presence, but why work so hard? 

This combination of factors also meant I did not need to harm _myself_.  I was terrified of missions going so wrong that I would need to end my own life, and any activity that even _skirted_ that border was too much for me to imagine.  Even if I did only minor things - removing scales or making little cuts on hidden patches of skin - my need would force me to increase the intensity.  

As I sat and ate lunch one day, the idea of _sexual_ pain occurred to me.  I supposed that it, too, would need to increase in its force over time to keep me satisfied, as the wire eventually dulled more and more of my reactions with consistent use.  But it certainly seemed to be the best overall option available to me.  

I had been researching Humans anyway, since hearing about the Federation’s looming arrival, as the majority of their complement was composed of Humans… They seemed more inclined to discuss sex openly than my people were, and I found that they incorporated a wide range of objects into their encounters.  That is not to say that Cardassians do not have Stimulation Devices, and that they aren’t capable of giving one pain, but I was really looking to shock my system.  How freeing, how reckless!  Who would stop me? 

I did not bring any Devices along with me, being an Exile and all, so I would need to wait and find my sources inconspicuously.  For the time being, all I really had at my disposal was my nails, which I kept purposely long.  I tried to limit myself to once every two days, so I would not feel compelled to move past my limits before I could find other sources… 

Then I found the only way I could surprise myself, really, was to thrust my fingers into my genital slit without any degree of stretching, first.  Of course I _knew_ exactly how far away my fingers were from the point of penetration, but the sensation came nonetheless.  I found, after some repetition, that I could take up enough space with my fingers to prevent myself from everting, and then it _ached_ for me to reach a climax.  It was _wonderful_.  

 

*****

 

“Give me the _exact_ phrase again, Garak,” requested Bashir, as they both stared tentatively into each other’s eyes.  “What you said right after I kissed you, I _know_ you remember.”

Garak was willing to oblige, only because he was trying very hard to cast Bashir in the role he’d been building up in his fantasies.  A role where Bashir’s confidence became genuine command, and where his refusal to see a negative outcome only meant he would begin holding Garak, as his subject, to equally high standards.  It wasn’t so much of a stretch, was it, hoping the young man would agree to dominate him?

“I said, exactly, ‘I like to receive additional stimulation during intercourse; will you provide this for me?’”

“You said ‘pain’ in there, somewhere.”

Bashir remembered all of the words, himself, but was quite accustomed to making himself look less brilliant than he really was.  Anyway, he needed to know what Garak _meant_ , not just what he’d _said_ , even though Cardassians were well known for using both of those factors as variables.  

“Yes… ‘will you provide this _pain_ for me?’”

Bashir had never been propositioned for this type of thing, before.  Mostly, when he had been with women, his dominant role had been mostly assumed by both parties.  But… Garak?  Well, he hadn’t expected this admission at all, on their first night together, and if anything, he maintained in the back of his mind that Garak would be the opposite.  How irritating, how fitting.

“ _Tonight_?  I don’t know what I would _do,_ Garak… we hardly _know_ each other, that way…”

“Perhaps you’d like to see what I have available, Doctor?”

Bashir continued frowning, but lightening it up every second.  He _did_ , yes, but:

“If I do, it’s going to _have to be_ ‘Julian,’ please,” he insisted.  “The _last_ thing I want to do with my evening is take a _medical_ look at your sex toys.”

“Toys?”

“What?” he amended, just to make his point, “Would you prefer I call them something else?”

“I must admit, I hadn’t given it any thought… Julian.”

This made _the doctor_ grin, and he helped Garak up from his spot in his lap, following him blithely to a particular wall-panel in Garak’s bedroom, behind which the _toys_ were kept.  Bashir was already looking forward to a new adventure, full of twists and romance and intrigue and… rather full of Garak, as his life had been for too long already.

“I have not had the chance to acquaint myself with all of them,” Garak explained, with partial honesty, “but if you have a preference…”

“Good _lord_.  Sorry.”

He sifted through the collection cautiously, taking a mostly-professional and calm demeanor despite his earlier insistence.  Until he came to one item in particular, which he rolled gently in his hand, testing its weight.

“Who the _hell_ do you let _whip you_ , Garak?”

“Hmmm,” was all Garak said, turning to size Bashir up with a careful glance.

“No, if you want me to do this to-- er, _with_ you, you’re going to need to be absolutely clear with me up front: who?”

“I have not used it before,” Garak lied.  He had been its subject once, but only for several lashes, from the hand of a woman he’d hired.  It didn’t feel quite right, like he wasn’t ready for that type of sensation yet, or with a stranger.  And that spurred him on to pay more serious attention to _Julian_ , his best option.

He thought it was some unusual showing of his brilliance, that he found a physician who would be able to treat him immediately if anything went wrong.  But he did not feel ready for a whip, tonight.

“Then we really shouldn’t start with it,” Bashir said slowly, quietly.  “We can try… something else…”

“Hmmm,” Garak said again.  He maintained that Bashir was not so naive as he appeared to be, _except_ in the face of sexual subjects.  Maybe he hadn’t used one before either, but wasn’t ready to admit it in such a vulnerable position.

Garak was almost looking up to him, and it felt strange.  Bashir thought they should go slowly with this, maybe even slower than they had gone with getting together in the first place, despite his usual preference for pace.  It was something they could learn together, wasn’t it?

Not ideally, no.

“I want you to use something you feel comfortable with, Julian,” Garak continued.  

The human cleared his throat and faked his confidence, and continued looking through Garak’s collection.  It should not have required so much time, really, as it was much smaller than Garak’s tone of voice had made it out to be.  But Bashir had not used some of these items _ever_ , and those he was at least fundamentally familiar with, he had not used on himself in years.

“Wait, that one looks almost… human?” he said, selecting one of Garak’s larger insertable devices.

“Thank you, Julian.  It is.”

“Well, actually…” Bashir faltered, struggling with whether or not he should point out all the minor inaccuracies, which, even if they were all combined together, would not be enough to stop Garak from adoring the thing.

“I don’t expect they look exactly this way, in the flesh” Garak said, pleased with himself and his read of Bashir’s struggling expression.  “But you’ll have to forgive the design.  I was feeling a bit self-indulgent, then, and rather lacking the company of my own kind.”

He stroked the ridge that ran down the side of his device, all the way to the base of the silicone sheath, where Bashir was holding onto it.  Their fingers just barely brushed.

Garak was always more comfortable with the unease than Bashir was.  They stared at each other almost expectantly, having never actually _seen_ each other intimately.  Of course, Bashir had changed Garak’s clothes in a medical context, so he would be more comfortable, but Garak had been safely tucked inside himself, then.  Bashir thought it was curious, having never researched Cardassian anatomy - not that the Station allowed him much of a chance, anyway - but did not think about it too seriously after it happened.

And now, he felt slightly ridiculous, holding this _toy_ out between them, learning it was some combination of their respective genitals, supposedly, and… and…

“I’m not sure, Garak, I’d rather just--”

“--have something _simple_?  Really, Julian, I must apologize for ruining the mood, for expecting too much from you without warning; I thought humans were more interested in being direct about these matters.  Let me begin again.”

Garak fetched a set of taper candles and a tool to light them, and clutched them in one hand, while the other snaked around Bashir’s back and led him into the bedroom.  Bashir was about to feel relieved, watching Garak dim the lights and set the candles down on the bedside table, arranging them neatly by height and indeed by color gradient, as well.  But then he recalled that these candles had come from Garak’s box of instruments, and his uneasiness returned.  This time, at least, it was manageable, more excited than apprehensive.  Nervousness was so fickle, so hard to define.  

After all, so was Garak.


	3. 01:09

Garak cupped his hand protectively around the final candle-wick as he lit it, before blowing teasingly on the lighter and testing the temperature of it on the back of his hand.  Satisfied, he set it down on the table, hidden out of sight behind the soldierly row of candles, and sought out Bashir’s gaze.

The human’s eyes were wide and focused, infinitely perceptive, and he spoke up before Garak could.

“I-I don’t have much experience with wax, either, if that’s what you were proposing with this… display of yours.”

Garak tutted his tongue at that.  What _did_ Bashir have experience with, then?  Wax was purely play for Garak, by now, having resorted to the unique pain it brought almost a year ago.  He could tolerate rather a lot of it, and knew where he liked it, and when; he could direct Bashir easily, but was afraid of assuming too much control.  Then again, they had never been typical, in their engagements.

“I’ve done it myself _many_ times.  If I advise you, will you do it?”

Bashir muttered something unintelligible, but ultimately gave his partner a ‘yes.’  Somehow, he found a naked Cardassian even more intimidating than a clothed or armored one.  Intimidating in a good sense, a fun sense.

“ _Only_ ,” Bashir emphasized, “if you are _honest_ about when it hurts, so I can stop.”

“Very well.  Now, there’s no need for you to undress if you don’t _want_ to; I can certainly keep you occupied while the candles warm up, regardless.  Give me your hand.”

He and Bashir talked their way through Garak’s body, together, through the areas Bashir was familiar with, and those he was not.  The doctor took every word down as truth, knowing he could easily test and verify all of Garak’s claims with any number of medical scanners.  Maybe Garak could mislead him, but Bashir was not worried enough about that to _actually_ go get his tricorder.  He was content to trace and touch, and listen.

His hands were warm and steady, and he let Garak lead him down from the _chuva_ to the _cloaca_.

“I knew you didn’t have external genitalia--” Bashir began, dipping a single fingertip in at Garak’s request, tracing the lining.

“Yes, wouldn’t that be _irritating_.  I couldn’t even _imagine_ being so vulnerable, constantly.

“...You know that humans _do_ , don’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve done some reading,” he admitted, “and my statement stands.”

It had not been any formal, medical reading.  It had been a couple of erotic novels Bashir mentioned dismissively, in passing.  Garak _had_ wondered why the author always skipped over eversion; it was known to occupy several pages all on its own, in Cardassian works.  Eversion was a metaphor for one’s devotion, and often a testament thereof, when well written.  Maybe it was a lofty goal, to hope he and Bashir could achieve something out of an erotic epic, tonight, but he was going to try.

Bashir felt _ridiculous,_  still being clothed, like he was giving Garak some kind of examination.  He shuddered, withdrew his finger, and took his clothes off, only to leave them in a pile on the floor, which Garak disapproved of strongly.  But his finger felt so _nice_ in its stead, more than enough to make up for the mess.

Then he knelt on the bed, between Garak’s legs, and returned to his work.  From the angle Garak was sprawled at, resting his head on a single, triangular pillow, he did not have much chance to take in Bashir’s body.  That exploration could wait until later, even if that was a selfish thing to think.  Bashir would not have argued; he would have done exactly the same, had the conditions been reversed.

After several torturous minutes, Bashir added a second finger, pressing in up to his knuckles.  He was a strong believer in preparation and safety, and all the things Garak was forced, by his device and dependence, to be bored with.  There were many ways this night could go terribly wrong.  Many, many ways.

“Now, the wax…” Garak insisted.  He had been turning his head to inspect the candles’ progress every few moments, and missed the annoyed glare Bashir gave in response.

Bashir worked his fingers _out_ equally slowly, and wiped them before retrieving a candle.

“The teardrop-shaped ridges - _chu’en_ \- are especially vulnerable to temperature variation,” Garak explained.  “I like to use the wax to _fill_ them, beginning with the _chufa_ , then the _chula_ , and finally the _chuva_ , so a sexual response is evoked… It is the sexual center, you see, and often I can evert _just_ from having heat applied there.  Although I will say, in _theory_ , if you were to move a little more quickly, I do not mind your fingers for that purpose, either.”

Intently, Bashir listened, filed away every detail, and nodded in conclusion.  He blew out the candle and then studied the pure liquid just beneath the wick.  To test it for himself, he chose to press his finger - the one that had originally been occupied with Garak’s genital slit - into the molten line dribbling down its side.  It caught and burned for a mere moment, before becoming tacky and cool on his finger.  He did not know if Garak would find this hot enough, until reminding himself they processed temperatures very differently.  Surely it would be irresponsible if Bashir let it melt any longer.

He took in a deep breath and straddled Garak’s chest, determined to look both engaged and confident.  With a careful grip on the candle, keeping the liquid safely within the upper rim, he coaxed a few drops of wax from the side down into Garak’s forehead ridge.

He did not want it to cool and cement inside the concave skin, but Garak caught this worry by holding up his hand, keeping Bashir from reaching inside.  

“That’s… you shouldn’t let it do that…”

Garak hissed and formed it into, “S-Starting with the mental center helps to ‘set the mood,’ if I’ve seen that Terran term used correctly.  And the mood is only maintained as long as the heat is, you see.”

“Mmhmm,” nodded Bashir.  

He was biting down on his tongue so he would not even _speak_ loudly enough to disturb the flow.  The calculation was instantaneous to him - that any reverberation of his voice in his fingertips would send the liquid down to surprise and _hurt_ Garak - but he hid it as usual behind endearing and unusual behavior.  His tongue poked out through his lips every so often, as he maintained his focus, and the tick would have fooled anyone but Garak.

“And the emotional center, next, and then the sexual.  I cannot think of a more _perfect_ first encounter, my dear, can you?”

Bashir cocked his head, trying to convey _I-don’t-want-to-be-lured-into-speaking_ with a hint of _thank-you-very-much_ coming from the particular way he rolled his eyes.

The first candle had cooled - the liquid inside was now solid enough to appease Bashir - so he set it down on the table, on its side, and set to kissing Garak’s neck, instead, delighting in the surprised noise his subject made.  It was something of a moan, quickly disguised into an exclamation of ‘my dear!’ which would have fooled anyone but Bashir, who had been hearing this for years already.

“Get another,” Garak continued, with a dispassionate and inconvenienced sort of sigh.  He motioned to the row of lit pillars, and then to his _chula_ , flicking his wrist dismissively at it. “I can barely feel that at all; it will need to be a good deal hotter for my _chuva_.”

In the case the authority gave well-founded critiques, Bashir was beautifully obedient.  But this was Garak, and his request was absurd as ever.  He huffed pointedly at the candles, extinguishing one of them on accident, before taking up another - the shortest and most thoroughly melted - and bringing it to rest over Garak’s belly.

“God forbid I take a moment to _kiss_ you,” argued Bashir, making a point to lean over and lap at his throat.

“Did you hear me mention my need for _additional stimulation_?” Garak returned, copying Bashir’s impatient tone precisely.  “You’re welcome to kiss me, _while_ doing something else.  I’m perfectly fond of that mouth of yours, believe me, but I do need _more_.”

Bashir struggled to be upset, as usual, when Garak mixed up his praise and coated it with denigration, making it bitter to swallow, but palatable nonetheless.

Still carefully considering the heat and time of impact, Bashir aligned the little candle with Garak’s _chuva_ , letting the molten liquid drip torturously from the top.  Each droplet sizzled and cooled, and Garak made similar noises, elated, shutting his eyes, throwing back his head, and abandoning his usual guard completely.   _Now_ Bashir was getting comfortable, performing at his best; Garak did not know what to request next.

There turned out to be no need for further entreaties.  Bashir stifled the candle’s flame between his fingertips, before tipping it all into Garak’s final ridge, forcing him to form his hissing into a sustained cry, before Bashir soothed the new burns with wet kisses.  This changed the tone of Garak’s cries into those of pleasure, and Bashir smiled as he shifted lower and dipped his chin in between Garak’s legs.

He hadn’t much time to study while Garak writhed, but took in a deep breath of Garak’s arousal before pressing against the ever-widening seam of the _cloaca_ with his tongue.  He felt perfectly comfortable with this ability, well-practiced and even praised several times in his past.  Better give Garak a more thorough sample, then, by which to judge him, Bashir thought.  Better show off in company that would understand and appreciate it correctly.  And he did not often have the chance to do _this_ with male partners, how exciting!

Reaching delicately upward, Bashir set down the spent candle and rubbed his fingers around the rim of Garak’s _chuva_ , smearing what wax had fallen.  It was only slightly uncomfortable, sticking to his skin and giving the briefest of burning sensations before being masked by the prevailing chill of Garak’s reptilian scales.  He understood why this might be pleasant, why it might change very quickly from pain to pleasure, and why Garak might adore it enough to have done it repeatedly to himself.

As he thought, and as he swirled his finger, he returned again and again with his tongue, making a point to exhale loudly, warmly, against Garak’s most tender patch of microscaling.  Garak’s fluid was fragrant and thick, sweet and mildly acidic, and Bashir pressed in deeper, honeying his tongue until he felt dizzy.  But he did not let up just yet; he would not give Garak the satisfaction.  Well, he _would_ , but of a more mutual variety.

*****

_E Garak_ _  
_ _Personal Log  
_ _0109 hours_  

Some time ago, necessity forced me to create a triggering device for my implant.  A single point of stimulation was no longer sufficient to activate it, and no matter _how_ forcefully or suddenly I would touch myself, it was not enough to initiate the production of endorphins.  So, rather than continuing to be miserable and in genuine pain, I found a frequency that _forced_ the implant to start.  It did feel different, without the initial pain to mask.  More intense, perhaps. 

I abused this, also; it broke. 

And _then_ I re-learned what pain was, having essentially torn my nerves over this. I processed nothing but the punishment of my actions for several hours, before Doctor Bashir thought (insisted) he should try his hand at taking it out - it couldn’t be _impossible_ , he just needed to _see it_.  Insufferable. 

And in a way, I am glad. 

I know better than to stop him, when his mind is set to something.  And I know he truly _is_ capable of providing what I need, even if I will not make it clear, obvious, or easy for him.  

I regret to say how attractive I find this whole sorry affair, how much I find myself looking forward to our next lunch together.  Of course, I will not be expressing these ideas beyond the expected (and thoroughly deserved) gratitude, but I do not know how well this will stifle them, and for how long. 

I am… quite tempted to give myself pain again, but I cannot achieve that balance on my own.  The balance _must_ be present.  Doctor Bashir is the only obvious candidate to be my provider, but I worry about him _also_ being the only subject I show genuine concern for, even if I insisted otherwise when he first offered to remove my implant.  I wanted him to leave before things got much worse, ignoring the fact he could make them better.   

In the way of persistence, I admit I have a lot I could learn _from him_.

 


	4. 04:55

The candle had gone cold when Bashir came up for a proper breath.  He was clutching tightly to a delightful patch of scales that curved down each of Garak’s thighs, holding him steady when he squirmed through the combined stimulation.  Looking down at Garak’s _chuva_ , he merely sighed.

“ _Julian_ ,” Garak eventually said, to reclaim his attention.

Bashir wiped his mouth and swallowed and tried to narrow his thoughts.  He must’ve abandoned the wax for longer than Garak liked, or perhaps gone against Cardassian custom by tasting him so greedily, or maybe he had hurt him somehow…?

“I’m sorry, I--” he began picking frantically at a trail of drying wax, “that was--” _amazing, intoxicating, addictive_ , _thick_ , “--rude of me, wasn’t it?”

“Quite the opposite,” Garak smiled down at him.  “ _I_ wanted to be courteous and inform you that I feel quite compelled to evert.  It isn’t… traditionally done into one’s mouth without warning.”

“Oh,” said Bashir, pulling back to give Garak some space, “I see.  M-may I?”

“I was rather hoping _you_ would tell _me_ ,” Garak insisted, flattening himself and trying to look as powerless as possible.

“...Of course.” Then Bashir gathered his conviction, “Evert for me, Garak.  Let me see you.”

That was… somewhat closer to what Garak had in mind.  More comfortable now - the mental peace was as important to Cardassians as the physical - he felt himself slip out of his sheath and into the cool air, surrounded by more of his own fluid than usual, moving easily.  He’d have to thank Bashir for that, later.

Bashir returned to studying with his hands, tracing one finger softly over the raised penile ridge that ran all the way to Garak’s base, overlapping briefly with his sheath, before disappearing down inside his slit.  It was a less dramatized version of the _toy_ he had unearthed earlier, and his training told him it would be incredibly sensitive.  So he pressed a little harder, listening for a hitch in Garak’s breath, but it did not arrive when he expected; he pressed harder still.

“That’s - _ah_ ,” there it was, a minute later, “so pleasant and _warm_.”

Garak could not recall the last time a partner had cherished him like this, and he debated with himself whether or not to urge Bashir back into a more commanding role.  This was nice, too, in its own way, but he got bored of it quickly.  He liked to wait until he was absolutely, indefinitely spent before turning himself over to more tender care.  

“More heat, please,” he insisted.

“ _Wait_.”

Bashir found he could still make room for two of his fingers, if he worked them in gradually, and once he was satisfied with his rhythm, he reached for the next candle in line.  He was feeling much better about this, now, almost genuinely confident.

Rather than allowing it to pool up dangerously in Garak’s _chuva_ , he sprinkled drops at random over his belly, watching, intrigued, as the soft scales bristled and curved to keep themselves safe from the onslaught.  He had to see...

“More?” he asked, fingers still buried in Garak’s slit.

“ _You. Tell. Me_.”

As he considered this carefully, Bashir could only blink.  His analytical mind presented him with a fabricated prescription for truth - this was _Garak_ , after all, so he was used to doing a fair amount of guesswork - and his compulsory training in psychology allowed his explanation to pass.  He supposed this was Garak’s _fantasy_ , and he needed someone to play the dominant role, not so differently from Bashir’s _own_ fantasies, even if his were acted out in arguably safer contexts.  He could _certainly_ perform a role; he was almost constantly displaying a range of performative actions.  Was it really so different, if Garak was the one making the request?  The only shock was to hear it come from his mouth so directly, so desperately, but that was not any reason for Bashir to let him down.  He did not generally inflict _pain_ on request, and in fact went out of his way to circumvent it, but _nothing_ he would agree to would cause Garak any lasting harm.  He would make that very clear.  

“I’ll give you more,” Bashir said, voice at its edge, “but first, we do need to set some rules.”

Garak groaned, “ _what_?”

“Like I said, I don’t want to _hurt_ you, so you need to tell me when to stop.  If you prefer, we can use a safe-word to--”

“That won’t be necessary,” Garak replied.  “I _need_ the pain; I’m not going to stop you.  But if you do something I dislike, I promise to vocalize it explicitly.  Will that suffice, Julian?”

“I… yes.  If the pain is subconscious, stop me _immediately_.”

“I don’t _have_ a subconscious.”

“Right, right… er…”

“Is that all?”

Bashir considered the candle in his fist, and the little glimmer that had gone from its dormant wick and straight into Garak’s eyes, instead.  

“Yes,” he decided, pulling himself higher and closer against Garak’s side, “and no.  I’ll give you more...”

Garak still intended to ask permission to just _see_ Bashir, but a surprise appealed to him, too.  He could _feel_ the human penis against his leg - now that he knew there was no eversion to wait for, not that he would admit that mistake to Bashir - and _oh_ , he wanted to feel it inside.  Bashir had removed his fingers, and was shifting his hips, why not right now?

“...more heat,” Bashir concluded.

Tipping the candle down again, Bashir let the molten wax splatter over Garak’s chest.  His cries were not enough to concern him, and the more he thought about it, the safer the practice seemed with Garak; truly ideal for a first encounter.  He had no body hair to be painfully plucked out afterward, no sensitive secondary characteristics to require special attention, and - beyond the places he was insistent on letting the residual wax build up - cool enough skin to counterbalance the burning effect almost instantaneously.

Bashir made careful marks at the height of Garak’s chula, watching him squirm, causing trails to form down the convex ridge, fluttering down his side before cooling enough to catch there.  Then, Bashir licked his way over these, not inhaling sharply enough to unstick the wax trails, but rather continuing the application of heat through his tongue, saliva, and breath.  He made his way to Garak’s underarm, and nestled there for a moment while he thought.

“Do you like that?” he asked, assuming the answer, but still seeking to placate the final shred of his wonderment.

In place of a direct answer, Garak reached out to touch Bashir’s hair, stroking his hand through it a few times before letting it remain buried there.

“Good,” said Bashir.

He freed himself from Garak’s hold, earning a dissatisfied little huff that fueled him, as he continued back down toward Garak’s slit.  Without wanting to ask inappropriately, he wanted to find out if _this_ was where Garak expected penetration - if it was possible, if it was reasonable, if it was safe.  While he worked the same two fingers inside again, he kept Garak distracted by licking slowly up that wonderful ridge that lined his cock.  It tasted much the same as the _cloaca_ did, and he had to restrain himself from becoming any more enthusiastic, just yet.  How fitting, that Cardassians had some deeply hidden, mellow _sweetness_.  He half expected the secretion was a defense mechanism that would poison him, later, it was just that good.  But for now, he did not want to bring any unintentional - and yes, subconscious - discomfort.     

“Is it traditional,” he asked, “for Cardassians to use their mouths with one another?  For oral stimulation, I mean.  Not for _bickering_.”

“You are the one bickering _now_ , my dear.”

That was closer to a ‘yes’ than a ‘no.’  Bashir confined his sigh mostly to his thoughts, and what remnant of sharp breath touched Garak’s sheath caused him to seize up for a moment. _Cold_.

Apologetically, he covered the flushed spot with his tongue, then gradually with his lips.  There was no resistance at all, courtesy of the fluid he had induced earlier, and Garak’s length was not so imposing that he could not slide all the way down to its base.  He had not done this in _years_.

Neither had Garak.  He trembled, somewhat, and Bashir pulled back as this movement made its way to Garak’s cock.  

He unclasped his lips and promptly licked them, and Garak could only watch.

“You don’t like that?” Bashir ventured.  Garak was quiet.  “Look, I _get_ that you want me to tell you what’s going to happen, I _understand_ , but please - you _need_ to be clear with me.  I have no intention of hurting you; I want you to _enjoy_ this just as much as I do.  And if you are _silent_ , I’m going to stop, and neither of us is going to have a good time.”

Garak nodded attentively; this was the authority he was looking for all along, and it managed to ease Bashir’s anxieties simultaneously.  Maybe they _could_ be good at this, together.

“Now,” Bashir began anew, taking in a deep breath and stroking Garak’s hair softly, like Garak had done to him earlier, “tell me, Garak, what you _do_ like.”

“‘Elim,’” he said, entirely undone, hopelessly selling his entire _soul_ to Bashir’s care, “I’d like that, please.”

“Elim, of course.  Let me try again for you, Elim.  Heat?”

Garak nodded again, more keenly, his eyes bright and impeccably focused on every move his partner made.

Bashir took the final candle out of line and pressed it flush against Garak’s chin, making the delicate ridge there swell up to meet the heat-source.  With a brief, jarringly cool breath, he put out the flame, before tipping the whole thing over the chin-ridge, which had risen just high enough to push all of the hot liquid down Garak’s throat.  It rolled and dribbled and eventually stiffened, and Bashir watched it intently, waiting for the _precise_ moment to apply pressure.

Garak was scrambling backward, eager to brace himself against the headboard, but the higher he raised his neck, the quicker the little droplets rolled.  He figured this out and paused, holding his breath as Bashir watched him, caught somewhere between approval and apprehension; he didn’t think he had seriously _burned_ his partner, but if Garak was only retreating and not speaking, how could he be positive?

“Ohhh,” Garak sighed at once, to reassure him. “That’s _wonderful_.”

Garak lowered himself, and then Bashir leaned in, both to hold down one of Garak’s arms and to watch the liquid’s progress.  To Bashir’s relief and delight, it came to a stop near what he would call the _laryngeal prominence_.  Grinning enough for Garak to see, he bent down and took this patch of wax-stained skin abruptly into his mouth, laving with his tongue, and sucking gently enough to keep the wax itself intact.

This rapidly reduced Garak to whimpering, pulling his legs up and fighting Bashir’s grip over his arm, not even _dreaming_ of asking for respite.  Ridges could be manipulated, and scales could be sensitized, but these did not compare to the sheer vulnerability of unarmored _skin_ , and Bashir had mapped out one of only a few expanses of it on the Cardassian body.  The palms were another, and Bashir reached for Garak’s hands, next, to show off his understanding.

Pinning Garak down by both palms, he disposed of the final candle and moved to straddle Garak more thoroughly, staring down into his eyes, intermittently kissing his exposed neck.  

“You were right, earlier,” he whispered, voice hot over the purplish mark his mouth and the wax had worked together to create, “when you said I _intended to penetrate_ you, tonight.”

“My estimate of your timing was slightly enthusiastic,” Garak said back.

Bashir nodded, and knew he would not be able to live with himself if he did not proceed with directness and clarity, now.

“Do you want me to...?” he asked, watching Garak carefully, not satisfied until he said ‘yes’ in conjunction with his nod.  One signal was not usually enough, amongst Cardassians, in his experience.  

The enthusiasm had been mutual, and Bashir was anticipating this moment since Garak first proposed, in his public and more understated words, they ‘spend the night together.’  Bashir had brought along antiviral injections for both of them, but there was no need to postpone any further; these could be administered afterward, to the same effect.

“So do I,” he said, at ease, nipping Garak’s throat again.  As if there was any doubt.

He positioned himself over Garak’s entrance, nimbly stroking his own cock before daring to press inside.  As he moved, slowly and _so_ carefully, he watched Garak’s expression.  With each centimeter he went inside, he found a new line of ridges to tease his sensitive flesh, and suddenly it required a lot of effort just for him to keep his eyes open and focused.  Garak could not accommodate him fully inside his _cloaca_ , but Bashir made a noble attempt, and discovered, if he held Garak’s length up at the right angle, he could rub _that_ delightful ridging against his own base as well.  Then, he began to set his rhythm.

“Alright?” he asked Garak, through gritted teeth, before opening them to add, “Does that hurt?”

“No more than I like it to, Julian,” Garak replied, and that was enough to appease.

Garak remained amused in his own way, feeling invigorated by the warm, _perfect_ pain Bashir was providing within him, while contemplating the two strange little bumps on Bashir’s chest above him, the gentle tickling sensation of the nest of curls that stroked alongside his slit on each inward thrust.  He was receiving more than enough stimulation, right now, to feel satisfied.

He tried moaning to express this, and ultimately managed to say both ‘yes’ and ‘I _like_ that’ while Bashir watched, intently, and continued.

“Good, Elim,” he replied.  “When you _tell me_ what you like, I know what to give you…”

After a few pumps of his hand, Bashir found Garak’s cock was still relatively soft, coated with his tacky fluid, but wonderfully responsive.  He adjusted his grip, curving Garak’s length more or less around his own, both supporting him and hooking him in closer, and he cried out at the sensation he had created.  The same as Garak reacted to the heat from the wax, Bashir reacted to the coolness of Garak’s most intimate place.  It surprised him but it did not hurt him; it only encouraged him to move more deeply inside.

“More?” he asked, a little out of breath.

Garak nodded, and said yes, and reached up to hold Bashir’s shoulders as he carried on thrusting, twisting Garak’s penis around his own, vocalizing together.

*****

_Dr Julian Bashir_  
_Personal Log  
_ _0455 hours_

Just back from Garak’s - no, computer, overwrite that, start again - sorry.

Just back from _Elim’s_.  

I should know better than to expect an uneventful evening from him, shouldn’t I?  I was correct in thinking he wanted to have sex - what else could he have possibly meant with that proposition of his - and it was _incredible_ … it just wasn’t quite what I expected.  If anything, it was the opposite.

He seemed very shy about asking, but he wanted to see if I was willing to dominate him, sexually, and that isn’t something I’ve _formally_ done before, not with any firm rules or equipment.  I was a little apprehensive at first, intimidated, but it seemed to go well for both of us.  It seems like it could be fairly common among Cardassians - I’ve yet to ask - to play with boundary and authority, and to extend that to the bedroom.  Then, with Garak, there’s the addition of pain, based on how he was dependent on it for so long, whether he wanted to be or not, and now he isn’t really left with a choice.

When I agreed, it sounded _fun_.  I was reluctant to give pain, but I knew I could control myself, and I expected I was indulging some fantasy of his, providing something he was unable to get, otherwise.  And I still believe that’s true, but it’s rather crossed the line of fantasy.  I was surprised to see how _seriously_ he took the whole encounter - that’s what he wants to call them, the times we have sex this way, ‘encounters’ - and how _consistent_ he was throughout.

Afterward, he was troubled about the AV Injections, but when I _ordered_ he sit still - and I promised it wouldn’t hurt, it’s a hypospray, and it wouldn’t go anywhere inside his file - he did exactly as I said.  So I kept on with that tone, and had him sit for me while I took a dermal regenerator to his burns… I do take some thrill in that, which I haven’t really analyzed, but some _thrill_ in conquering a difficult patient.  So I went on!  I _ordered_ him to come to the shower with me.  I only turned on the sonics, and even through some of the different light-schemes, he was able to get a better look at my body - our positions hadn’t really allowed it, before, and I did feel a bit bashful - but I found him curious and polite, as ever.  

He has, for years, liked to ask questions with his _hands_ , touching me to surprise me and get the truth out me - he tells me it takes _time_ to craft a lie, if one lacks experience.  So I _ordered_ him to keep his hands behind his back and let me peel the wax off for him - oh yes, wax… we used candles! - and I would answer his questions that way.

He wanted to know more about me ‘for next time,’ about physical features he has no equivalency of, and I found it all rather sweet, I must say.  And after he’d stopped touching, I told him all he cared to know.  I didn’t know that was all he needed, just to take care of himself, or rather, to allow himself to be taken care of.  He wanted a bit of distraction, something to keep his mind occupied while his needs were met, and I can see why that is something he can no longer give himself.  

All of this, even after a single encounter, leads me to believe it _isn’t_ fantasy.  I think it _is_ a genuine need, something I would have recommended for him much earlier, had I known the desperation of his circumstances - and his attraction to me, but that’s my own fault for putting off.

It makes me feel… a little scared, all over again.  I would rather he not make this request of anyone else, for fear they would not take _care_ of him, when the encounter concludes, of even during, if limits were not correctly set.  I feel so honoured, and relieved, that he’s chosen to trust me with this, even if it does seem a little out of the blue.  I worry that I am not the perfect dominant partner, not yet, and that he could replace me.  But Elim is not perfect for his role, either, and maybe we can learn together.  

I have offered to plan our next encounter, and I will make a point to learn everything I must beforehand.  My intention is to show Elim - _my_ Elim, in fact - to be patient, instead of pushy, that I would rather reward both of us than spend our time together lecturing him.  I am sure he has seen enough of _that_ in his life already.

Then, there is still the matter of pain, and how badly he craves it.

Perhaps I am not cut out for domination, after all, but for Elim’s sake, I’m going to try my hardest to prove myself wrong.  I did enjoy it, I must admit, and now I intend to make that enjoyment into mastery.  


	5. 13:30

E Garak  
Personal Log  
1330 hours

It would seem I am not suited to submission.

In my reluctance to request a more formal engagement from Doctor Bashir, I’ve sought out casual partners, based on how low the odds are of us ever seeing one another again. Their fees are… I would have thought ‘exorbitant’ but they seem to be standard, and I’ve had to spend more time working on orders than I would like to, in order to afford them.

But now I know, at least, that I can save my latinum.

I thought I could book a service, request exclusively pain, and then provide myself whatever calming effects I required afterward, when my temporary partner was already en route to a distant star-system. I tried exactly this, and it did not go brilliantly.

I welcomed her to whip me, and suffered through precisely four lashes before I was begging her to stop. After a fifth, she did - some contractual limit; I neglected to read the finer points of her terms - but that rather soured the rest of the evening. I found I needed to be in some other mindset to truly receive pain, something my implant used to translate for me. I could not just be abused. I wanted to discuss this with her, to see if it was common or at least heard of, but this, too, was outside of her obligations.

I paid her and she departed, leaving her implements behind for me to stare at and feel guilty over. Then I spent several embarrassing hours sobbing into the crook of my arm in the bathtub.

It was clear that I needed someone who would happily talk to me and reassure me, who would inflict punishment and soothing in equal measure, who would develop with me but at a quick enough pace to keep me satisfied. What I needed was a lot to ask of any one individual, especially when I already relied on Doctor Bashir for almost all of my other needs. He had learned from me in many regards, and I was willing to trust him with most anything.

But why not this?

*****

Bashir arrived right on schedule, with his intentions already clear in his mind. After telling himself repeatedly not to overthink anything, he had, unsurprisingly, overthought everything. At least it had given him some insight into his attraction, though, and he was looking forward to sharing that knowledge with Garak, who otherwise seemed unconvinced that he was worthy of anyone’s time or attention, let alone Bashir’s, intimately.

Essentially, Bashir realized his fear of this dynamic being backward was the basis of what had attracted him to Garak for years now. When they first met, Garak owned the interaction, without question. He made Bashir nervous, and after he took a few steps back to analyze, he began to see Garak as everything _he_ wanted to be, himself. The physical interest stemmed from admiration, and a very gentle variety of envy. And even if Garak’s demonstration had been performative - Bashir was accustomed to doing that, himself, too - Garak had shown composure and wit, and control over the unknown variable of their meeting. Bashir wanted that so badly for himself, arriving on a new assignment so highly contested. And now, they were embarking on something adventurous together, and Bashir was determined to show Garak what he had learned, and figured out on his own. Bashir’s first step was to discover how much pain Garak could truly tolerate, and how much he was comfortable with providing, from what sources.

Of course, Bashir remembered the precise contents of Garak’s intimate inventory, and knew exactly which devices he wanted to integrate into tonight’s encounter. The last detail he needed to solidify was forcing a _command_ out of himself, instead of a _question_. Garak took his hand at the door, reaching then for his shoulder, giving a friendly little squeeze, and that almost threw Bashir off, but he was determined.

“Hello, Elim,” he said back, rather flatly, waiting for some dissemblance to accompany the touch to his shoulder, but none came.

Garak was watching him eagerly, and was not even trying to lead him anywhere. He had stopped beyond sensor range of the door, but only just, and looked back and forth at his desk and the sofa, without committing to either location. Strangest of all, he was quiet.

“Is something the matter?” Bashir was required to ask questions like this, and did not hold it against himself.

“I feel..." Garak took a sharp breath, “somewhat surprised to see you here. I was worried you did not enjoy our last encounter, and were only indulging me t--”

“I did enjoy it,” Bashir insisted, “every second of it. Stop that, and come sit down.”

Together, they moved to the sofa, and Garak took a seat in the center of it, between two cushions, leaving Bashir the choice of crowding himself to either side. But he did not sit down. He remained standing, looking down at Garak with more than enough kindness to numb the words.

“I understand. It isn’t something I would lie about, Elim, especially not to you, and you don’t need to worry about that, okay? In fact, I’ve planned tonight all around easing our worries, so we can go through this more confidently together. Elim?”

Garak’s eyes had wandered - not far, only about halfway down Bashir’s chest - as they usually did when he was trying to read someone. That was not a game Bashir wanted to play, right now.

“Look at me, Elim. I was worried about hurting you; I didn’t take your need for that hurt seriously. That is what we are going to do tonight, together, alright?”

“Yes,” Garak replied, deep in thought.

“I want to test your tolerance, and it is _imperative_ you are truthful with me about your needs from here on out. Undress.”

Garak complied at a slightly-faster-than-casual speed, pausing only to lay his tunic and trousers neatly across the unused seat before returning to rest in line with Bashir’s unwavering gaze. His socks and thick undergarment were rolled off and merely kicked to the side, to show he really was interested in getting started, in being good.

“Now,” continued Bashir, but something was missing...

It was as if Garak’s eyes were not whole, then, as if a little piece had cut itself out of the usual wide circle, leaving them dull. Bashir leaned in and really looked, catching the droop of Garak’s shoulders, and with it, the fear he had not performed well enough.

“That’s very good, Elim, thank you” he said, relieved to see Garak grin up at him, eyes bright again. “Now, there are some items I need from your collection. Wait for me right here.”

Bashir had planned them a fairly fundamental and important evening, even if it wasn’t strictly romantic. He was going to use the range of self-limiting devices he noticed in Garak’s collection, and he was going to see which had the most profound effects. His original intention, of course, was to give Garak his climax eventually, but now he was considering withholding even that, if it would help get the truth out of Garak. Why hadn’t he thought of that years ago? He considered it, and was fairly certain he had only ever seen Garak under duress, as far as information-trading scenarios went, and that little promise of pleasure was all he needed then - of course, the pleasure was more intrinsic, like breathing space - but the pattern was the same. Cardassians were nothing without a pattern, and Bashir could create an unforgettable one, this evening.

He found the wall cabinet with ease, and sorted through carefully until he had the implements he wanted. There were three of them that caught his eye, and which he could discern the intended purpose of - some, he could only guess, and would not be effective with, so soon - but these made him feel more confident, and more in control. The first was obviously molded to cover one of the _chu’en_ , shaped - as the Cardassians insisted - like a teardrop, not a spoon, and made of a thin panel of metal, made breathable by slits cut into each side. Next was a constrictive, cylindrical device, which he assumed affected the penis in some way, as it was hollow - surely one was meant to settle themselves inside it, rather than to insert it. The final, then, was decidedly insertable, shaped more or less like an hourglass, with a clip at one end. To Bashir, the shape suggested it went inside the cloaca, with the thin centerpiece carved to accommodate the bulge of the wearer’s sheath, leaving the two wider ends to stretch the base and the seam to capacity. He wanted to start by getting the names for these - an easy and verifiable test of Garak’s willingness to be honest with him - before working out their intentions, and how Garak liked to use them, stopping any time Garak withheld, and rewarding any time he did not.

When Bashir returned, items clutched against his chest, Garak was in the exact same place and position, attentively tracking Bashir’s every move.

“Listen to me carefully,” Bashir said, his confidence multiplying into power with every word. “You are going to tell me the name of each of these items, how they are used, and how often. When you are honest with me, we will use an item together, and you will help me quantify your reaction. Does that…” he lost his way momentarily, because he swore he had never seen Garak looking so delighted, “Do you agree to that, Elim?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Now, then,” Bashir began again, always unsure of how to flow less abruptly through conversation, “this one.”

He set all three of them down on Garak’s workstation, and took his time inspecting them, making his selection. Even though his choice was already mentally finalized, he ran his fingers over each implement before taking hold of the metal panel and holding it up. Then, he looked at Garak while he addressed the computer, asking to have all reading material displayed on Garak’s console, for a Cardassian item called a - he tipped his head at Garak -

“ _Chy’em_ ,” recited Garak.

Bashir was able to read along - relieved to find such an article existed in the first place - while Garak spoke, and more or less confirmed the entry. At first, he was worried Garak had misled him, as the text dismissed _chy’em_ as travel necessities for Cardassians going offworld - at least to anywhere colder than Bajor - which were molded around the _chula_ to keep the wearer warm.

“I have modified mine,” Garak explained. “It only gets cold, and you’ll notice I’ve bent the closure inward, allowing it to fit more snugly on my _chuva_ , instead.”

“And why would it only get cold, Elim?” Bashir asked, voice steady.

“Because, Julian, I used to activate it in conjunction with my implant, and the sensation needed to be both unpleasant and intense for… effective relief.”

That seemed fair enough; Bashir nodded.

“How often, Elim?”

“Then, three times per week on a set schedule. Recently, I don’t think I’ve used it in months…”

“ _No_ ,” Bashir redirected him, “your memory is better than that. Tell me when.”

Garak looked up at him again, ignoring the _chy’em_ in his hand, even when he played over it with those soft, slender fingers…

“Five weeks ago, and I did not activate it. I used it only to give pressure.”

“Pressure,” echoed Bashir, making an amendment to the file the computer provided. This would be his personal copy, the closest thing to a contract he would ever get out of Garak. “Good… good, thank you.”

After finishing with his typing, Bashir approached Garak more purposefully, holding the _chy’em_ out in front of himself. He kept it equidistant between their chests, precisely angled and withdrawn as the gap between them became smaller and smaller.

He held it up to Garak’s chula, first, noting with some satisfaction that it did not fit properly, just as Garak had claimed.

“And how might one activate it?” Bashir asked, sliding a fingertip carefully into the slot on the side.

“You have the right idea,” Garak quipped back, having just watched Bashir read the object’s entire available history in one sitting.

Bashir made an affirmative little noise from deep in his throat, and, rather than have Garak suffer for being honest, he pressed the thing against the soft underside of his own wrist while it cooled. It rapidly became unbearable - for Bashir, at least, who did not often do things like this to himself for fun - and he removed it, switching it off again in the same manner. The return to room temperature occurred more gradually, and he tested it with his palm at intervals, not offering it to Garak again until he could first tolerate it, himself.

“Show me,” he instructed, and Garak grabbed the _chy’em_ from his open hand.

Garak had to fuss with the closure to ensure it still fit the way he liked it, and he was careful not to swipe his finger along the sensor inside, which would activate it again. When he had made the pointed end somewhat smaller and tighter, he clamped it over his chuva and held his hand to the side, gesturing for Bashir to inspect his work.

“Good, Elim,” he said, mostly as a placeholder, while he leaned in and looked around, to decide whether or not it was good, beyond the fact Garak had followed his instructions without too much resistance.

The task itself passed as ‘good’ also, and Bashir reached out suddenly to touch Garak’s temple.

“Count for me, each time you exhale,” Bashir said, while he felt around for Garak’s pulse.

He huffed impatiently - Bashir did not count this - but ultimately obliged, breathing in, then out, then saying ‘one.’ They proceeded this way through twenty breaths, with Bashir noting the variances to himself, before he held his hand firmly over the top of the _chy’em_ , raising the pressure Garak felt. As Bashir expected, Garak’s heart-rate increased, indicating excitement without yet crossing into dangerous anxiety.

“Count,” he reminded Garak, and they went on through eighteen more breaths, on their way to twenty, when Garak turned his head and disturbed the placement of Bashir’s hand.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I’m sure,” he began, while Bashir glared at him and pressed his temple more firmly, hoping he would quiet down.

Garak winced at his speech, not at any of the physical stimulation he was being given, before he continued.

“But you do not need to worry about harming me. I need that, and there will be absolutely no acrimony on my part if you do manage to do so.”

Bashir sighed and dropped his hand. Not only had he lost Garak’s investment in his role - which he needed, in order to perform it convincingly - but he had lost track of the breathing exercise, as well.

“What happened to that infamous disregard for anything but your own well-being?” he asked, frustrated.

“I think you’ll find that has never been true.”

“Elim,” he said, warningly.

“Your investment in my health is admirable, Julian, but I would rather just have the pain.”

Bashir ripped the _chy’em_ off and let it fall to the ground, mostly to gain Garak’s full attention, and this seemed to work beautifully.

“This _isn’t_ negotiable. I’m not going to just start… poking and prodding you, recklessly, like some inorganic lab sample. And I don’t know what it is you’re trying to keep from me right now - because I’m _sure_ this isn’t anything more than a distraction - but please, save it. I know that we’re attracted to each other - and maybe that’s embarrassing to you? - and I know that you need this. And I will give it to you, Elim, I will. But I am not going to be heartless about it; what kind of relationship would _that_ be?”

Garak cast his eyes on the fallen _chy’em_ , and found himself working diligently not to mourn it with a genuine tear or two. Perhaps not just the device, but the whole speech he had subjected himself to, in its wake.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be cared for, Elim,” Bashir ventured, at the sudden softness of Garak’s expression. “Maybe no one has ever taught you that, but I’m here for you now, and I will.”

He paused his intended lesson in favor of another, and sat down in the tight space Garak left for him on the side of the sofa. Where he noticed Garak’s microscales had tensed and bristled upward, he rubbed his hands slowly, soothingly, to warm him again.

“It’s _good_ \--” ‘necessary,’ Bashir wanted to say, but this road was best taken one step at a time, “to have a partner who will take care of you. It’s wonderful to be able to learn things from one another, even after you’ve been together for a long time, already. There can be surprises and setbacks, but if there is a strong foundation, you can work through them.”

Bashir sounded - for once, from an emotional perspective - to be speaking from experience, and Garak considered him fondly, as he settled down against Bashir’s chest and peered up at him. This felt… right, somehow; clearly, Bashir was speaking about them. On a more physical level, it felt strange, with Garak undressed and essentially snuggling into Bashir’s clothed body for warmth, seeking to steady his breath without the reassurance Bashir’s hand had offered, hoping it was not too late to undo his deviation even though the implement they were beginning to play with was now on the floor. Bashir was absolutely right; he needed to break this habit of avoiding help, of being uneasy to the point of snapping when any was offered.

“I see,” said Garak, quietly but with his usual air of intelligence, “and tonight was meant to be our foundation, wasn’t it? I do hope I haven’t unsettled it.”

“Mm, I think it’s been steady for some time. And I fully intend to try again, just as soon as you’re ready.”

“Have I ever told you what I think of your persistence, Julian?”

Bashir nodded, mentally bracing himself to hear _again_ how irritating he could be. Then Garak found Bashir’s hand on his shoulder, and held onto it while he spoke.

“I take all of it back.”

 

 


	6. 09:45

When Garak was calm again, Bashir patted his hand and stood up, returning to the workstation. He gathered the little hourglass shaped toy, next, and brought it back for Garak to see. 

“Tell me about this one,” he said, prompting the computer to query Garak’s words like before. “I take it it’s insertable…”

“Yes,” said Garak, “ _tukka._ ”

The computer provided a file, and Bashir read, and Garak spoke.  

“They are _quite_ straightforward,” Garak continued, “even, dare I say, by _your_ standards, Julian.”

“Mm Hmm,” Bashir nodded without looking down.  

He could see most of Garak’s face over the top of the PADD he read from, and when he was done, he turned and set it back down on the workstation, taking his time to properly look at Garak again.

“How often do you use it, Elim?”

“It _is_ one of my favorites,” Garak grinned back.  “Twice per week.”

“Alright.  Do the same as before,” Bashir instructed, crouching down in front of Garak, “ _count._ ”

He felt for Garak’s pulse in his forearm, this time, and held it down against the seat of the sofa.  With his unoccupied hand, he pulled Garak’s knee to the side, widening his berth.  The _cloaca_ was a fairly straightforward cavity, Bashir knew from his limited experience with it, and he was looking forward to the practice.

The seam flared and pulsed as Garak began to breathe more deeply, watching Bashir kneel in front of him, settling his chin on the cushion, and placing the _tukka_ to one side.

“Are you going to _devour_ me again, my dear?” asked Garak. 

“Maybe later.”

Bashir expelled a hot, sustained breath against the patch of microscales, and watched as the seam spread open and flushed a delicate shade of thistle-purple in response.  What a _delightful_ little place this was.  Garak’s fondness of temperature was explaining itself more and more each moment.

Despite the intended purpose of the toy itself, Bashir did not insert it until he could work one finger inside, steadily, uninterrupted by Garak’s movements - except by the pulsing of his sheath, which he could not control.  Every so often, the little pocket would swell to meet Bashir’s passing knuckle, and Garak’s breath would catch, and Bashir guessed he was doing something _just right_.  When he finally did insert the _tukka_ , he felt almost jealous of it, reaping the rewards of his work.  He curled his lips inward while he considered this, waiting, as he usually did, for Garak to prove him wrong.

“It prolongs the eversion process,” Garak sighed in relief as the _tukka_ stopped against his inner wall.  “That is its only purpose.”

Bashir had read as much, but since this genuinely _was_ a Cardassian ‘Stimulation Device,’ he’d found the article to be both vague and brief.  The _chy’em_ was, at least, a common item for travelling, and Cardassians _did_ do a lot of travelling, and a lot of writing and bragging about their inventions.  This article had told him nothing which he had not already guessed from its shape.

“Does it vibrate?” asked Bashir.

Garak looked confused at that, but Bashir quickly offered apology.

“It stays completely stationary?” the human continued, trying to dismiss his own notions of similar devices.

“Oh, yes,” Garak replied, “that’s the beauty of it.  The motion is forced, by the groove in the center, to be executed by the wearer, not the device.  It’s rather a shame you cannot watch it at work, Julian… perhaps an x-ray, sometime…”

Bashir swiped his hand gently over the opening, and he _could_ feel movement, but he could not see the pattern Garak was suggesting, nor could he guess how it made Garak feel; he had no personal equivalent to this sensation.

“They can be set to pulse irregularly,” Garak continued, “but I find it is, like many things, better when it is _simple_.”

Of course, Garak had stopped counting his breaths, but Bashir was more interested in understanding his partner’s sensations, now, than his vitals.  He kept his fingers fixed to Garak’s pulse, enough to satisfy his scientific curiosity, and he felt the tempo increase gradually.  Garak was still able to speak calmly and at length, not interrupted by any threat of hyperventilation, and Bashir was pleased with that.

If it did not even unsettle his voice, though, how could it provide enough pain to be Garak’s self-proclaimed favorite?  Bashir wondered if he had ever worn it in public, and assumed he probably had practiced it plenty of times.  He shook his head and repressed a chuckle.

“Explain how it feels to wear,” Bashir requested, and Garak supplied his answer right away.

“Oh, _sensational_ ,” his seam twitched around the circular end with each heartbeat, Bashir noted.  “The groove encourages one to… slide forward - it stimulates a ridge beneath the sheath, you see, which is used - unkindly or in case of a hurry - to force one’s eversion.  Forcing contact there, of course, begins eversion, but one’s… length... is forced backward again by the rising end of the _tukka_.  It’s a _wonderful_ design.”

“How long is it worn for?” Bashir asked, adding, “ _Safely_?”

“The only harm I could think of from prolonged use _might be_ permanently inhibiting one’s eversion…”

Even without much formal, in-depth study of Cardassian reproductive anatomy, Bashir _had_ thought it was curious for Garak’s fluids to all be so _thick_ .  Not that it dissuaded him, in fact he _enjoyed_ the sample he had taken, but it did not seem… standard, for a humanoid, whether he was reptilian in ancestry or not.

“And you’ve done that to yourself, then, haven’t you?”

“...yes,” Garak admitted quietly, “I have.  But I also have the good fortunate of not engaging with other Cardassians, in this capacity, who might hold that fact against me, or worse, make it public.”

Bashir was not sure how to feel about this.  He kept his hands steady - one on Garak’s wrist and the other lining his thigh - and nuzzled inward to disguise what Garak might otherwise see as a smile.  He certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone, and both of them knew it.

“I needed to continue heightening the sensations,” Garak explained, “in order to feel them at all.  It is comparatively mild to me, now, but I still enjoy it… a habit, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Bashir repeated, fondly.

He had no desire to push Garak’s boundaries, whether or not the walls around _pain_ had already been flattened years ago.  Since Garak had been so open with him, and _most likely_ honest, Bashir wanted to reinforce him with something positive as soon as possible.  So, he slid his hand inward from Garak’s thigh until his fingers, parted to each side, aligned with the stretched seam.  He curled his fingers around it, gripping just tightly enough, and began to slide the _tukka_ out of place.

Bashir found himself very comfortable, kneeling on the floor, but he also found it hard to feel dominant from this position.  That was, until he gained a firm hold on the toy, and pulled it out past the indented center, approaching the other wide, circular end…

Garak heaved his breaths, now.  His heart-rate increased, but Bashir still deemed it safe, so he continued.  When the toy was out, he abandoned it on the outer side of Garak’s open legs, making a mental note to sanitize it later, but even this single line of _thought_ was interrupted by Garak.  He groaned but stopped abruptly, and Bashir raised up his shoulders, catching his eyes.  

He thrust his fingers inside sharply, in place of the _tukka_ , and was met with Garak’s glans, swollen and hot, and tacky.  His fingers cradled it as the toy had, until it was caught in Bashir’s palm, waiting at Garak’s opening.  

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Garak tried to make his moaning sound dignified, and Bashir _did_ enjoy the outcome, “Julian… _that_ is precisely why I use it… mm…”

Bashir could see the appeal in _that_ , in trying to surprise oneself during something that was, by nature, predictable otherwise.  But the fact was, for now, he needed to be _careful_ and _gentle_ , despite any argument he might earn from Garak.

Gradually, he withdrew his palm, allowing Garak to finish everting at this torturous pace, until he was settled vulnerably on the sofa cushion.  Bashir took his hand away from Garak’s arm, now, excited by all the variations he had felt, and leaned in to lap at Garak’s seam.  He held his newly-everted penis out of the way, as it was still wonderfully pliable, and drank from the fluid pooling beneath it, twisting his fingers tenderly along the shaft as he did so.  

“You did _very well_ ,” he said, when he needed to remind himself to breathe, “ _Very_ well, Elim, _perfect_.”

Garak wanted to debate that - he was, at best, a subpar lover, made so by his own intervention, and Bashir might find _any other_ Cardassian infinitely more attractive - but he was being taken care of here and now.  He was supposed to let it happen, and actively enjoy it, as if catching up after years of neglect and careless experimentation.  Bashir was rewarding this behavior, re-training Garak’s mind and body, and even though Garak was aware of it, he could not convince himself to be anything but grateful.  He remained quiet, aside from the occasional moan of ‘ _Julian_ ’ which only made him feel _better_ , after Bashir’s response.

He felt one of Bashir’s hands on each of his knees, after a while, when his cock had stiffened enough to keep itself out of the way of Bashir’s diligent ministrations.  Bashir only stopped when he was satisfied, and barely placed any weight on Garak’s legs at all as he stood.

“And now,” he said, going and fetching the final toy from the table, “we _must_ be able to use this one.  Tell me how, Elim.”

At this point, Bashir began undressing himself, after depositing the toy in Garak’s hands.  He was spread wide on the sofa, panting and watching as Bashir tried to distract him, showcasing more and more of his soft, warm skin with each motion.  Soon, his uniform was unzipped and lying on the floor beside Garak’s less-important articles of clothing - his tunic and trousers were neatly folded, after all - and he was peeling off a sleeveless undershirt while Garak blinked back at him mutely.

“Tell me _how_ , Elim,” he reiterated.  He needed to remain focused, himself, and firm.

“ _Haylen_ ,” Garak supplied the name of the device, first, noting with some pride that Bashir made no motion to read from the computer display.  “It… is reinforced silicone, _just_ soft enough to be bent, and... ”

Bashir was removing his socks, and was otherwise completely naked, and Garak was trapped, staring at him in awe.  Even in the shower, last time, he barely had a chance to appreciate his physical form, as different as it was from his own.  It was opposite in every important way, and Garak thrived on the fuel of a good contradiction.  His eyes hovered at the hanging head of Bashir’s cock, which he had learned some _fascinating_ information about, during the shower they had shared.

“It withholds the flow of one’s… release,” Garak said, modestly, displaying the _haylen_ atop his flat palms.

“Semen,” said Bashir.

Garak waited to hear the translation before nodding and saying, “yes, it seems so.”

“Show me.”

With a nod, Garak lowered the _haylen_ in his hands, and adjusted himself until he was partially encircled within it.

“You have… a single _urethra_ ,” he pronounced, carefully.

“Yes, that’s right,” Bashir said, willing to indulge Garak’s stalling, this time.   

They had covered this topic in the shower, and Garak did rather too much _touching_ ; Bashir did not understand, until now, that this was only because Garak thought _Bashir_ was lying to _him_.  

“Cardassians have three.  This covers all of them simultaneously, if applied at the proper stage.”

Bashir would confirm this in his reading, later.  It did seem… excessive, but the only chance he would have had to count them, he had spent wrapping Garak’s penis around his own.  This made it an unreliable test, and now the _haylen_ obscured his vision.  He sighed, but at least Garak was following his orders without delay; that only made it easier for him to give more.

“If you’re at this ‘proper stage,’ I want to see you put it on.”

“Just about…”

“ _No_ ,” Bashir corrected, “if you aren’t, if it will _hurt_ , then tell me, and don’t do it.”

“It can be done,” Garak explained, “the silicone will fold… it is generally done _before_ one has sufficient stimulation to stiffen…”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Bashir smiled.  “Do you… need some help?”

Garak did not know which option to choose.  He coaxed himself inward, but could not resist the urge to nod, to see what _help_ Bashir thought he might supply.  The doctor went to order something he described only as _lubricant_ from the replicator - how curious, Garak thought, when Bashir must’ve _known_ by now that Cardassians produced their own internally - before returning to the sofa, and working the gel between his hands to warm it.  With this done, he rubbed the compound over Garak’s penis, and slid the toy into place without any further difficulty.

Then he turned Garak to one side, so he was leaning back against the armrest, and his legs were resting fully on the cushions.  He nestled in between them, and reached to take a firm hold of the _haylen_.

“And now…?” he asked, curling his fingers upward, over the three hidden slots Garak claimed to have.

“And now, the possibilities are _endless_.”

“ _Elim_.”

Still holding tightly, he rubbed his hand experimentally over the full length of the _haylen_ , causing it to slide along with him.  Garak squirmed, and the scales on his neck and along his outer thighs began to swell and darken.   _Oh_.

“And, _mm_ , of course… if you had some means for b-being penetrated, yourself,” Garak struggled to speak, _finally_ , “I could wear… this… mm-- and-- _while_ … and both of us might enjoy--”

“Oh, I _do,_ ” Bashir said, and that was all; let Garak _wonder_.

That would best be saved for a later encounter, if the chance ever presented itself at all.  For now, Bashir kept his voice as firm and brief as his movements, slicking his hand repeatedly over Garak’s constricted length.  It was nice, that feeling of self-imposed mystery; it made Bashir feel powerful.  He could see why Garak was so fond of it, not that Bashir was about to make a habit of it, himself.  He dealt with enough secrets already, and had no desire to find them intoxicating.

This time, he had to count Garak’s breaths visually, watching intently from his post at the other armrest.  Garak was in no state to speak clearly, or on a consistent schedule, and if he was in any real pain, he was disguising it beautifully.  Humans had devices similar to this one, and Bashir knew enough about them to declare the pain not harmful, but…

“ _Good_ ,” he said, carefully increasing the speed of his strokes, watching Garak writhe in response.  

He felt himself becoming aroused at the sight, and ran his other hand teasingly up against his own glans, preparing himself in quite a different way, giving pressure while keeping his hand flat and still.  

Garak watched what he could of this, setting his head against the cushioned armrest.  He bit his lower lip and chewed it thoroughly, unable to speak, but focusing very well on his breathing.  Bashir was happy to see his breaths were deep if not entirely regular.  He kept his eyes open, as well, despite the intense compulsion to clench them shut.  What a beautiful contradiction he was, when he was at his most vulnerable.  

Bashir kept his strokes regular, at a steady speed, relieved to see this helped Garak’s breathing improve even more.  

“ _Oh,_ ” Garak gasped after the respite of Bashir’s slowing movements, “please, Julian, _please_.  T-t-twist it off, _please_ let me…”

At this point, Bashir realized he held complete power over Garak’s climax.  He saw no point in withholding it, since Garak had been so cooperative - and, frankly, _enticing_ \- but he wanted Garak to understand he had that option, and _could_ exploit it if he chose.

“Keep your hands at your sides,” he warned, when Garak began creeping toward the _haylen_ in the intermediary silence.  “Answer a question for me, and I will take it off.”

“Mmm,” Garak nodded affirmatively, as he knew Bashir liked.

“Have you told me the truth, tonight?”

Whenever Garak was asked this, his answer was a compulsive ‘yes.’  But now, he took the time to make it genuine, for fear Bashir would not believe him, otherwise, even though they had explored the toys together, based on Garak’s background information and Bashir’s discretion.

“Yes, yes, only--”

“Only?” Bashir tightened his grip and stopped moving completely.

“Only the truth, Julian, _please_.”

The answer was not coerced, not given for Garak to find his own satisfaction.  It was given to earn him Bashir’s.

“Good,” he said again, and Garak positively _melted_.

Following Garak’s suggestion, Bashir twisted the _haylen_ loose, and unrolled it from Garak’s cock.  With it out of the way, he continued stroking, and when he felt the member shuddering and tightening itself, he withdrew enough to _count_ the three openings Garak claimed to possess.  He watched and found Garak’s climax satisfactory - from both a romantic and a scientific perspective - as he watched Garak’s face fall slack in its pleasure, and then ran his tongue over the three little slits, pressing inside to confirm the conveyance of semen from within.  He did not know what to say that would not sound conceited, insistent that his method was exactly what Garak needed, and even found enjoyable; he remained quiet instead.

Garak set his neck down on the armrest, letting his head drape over the side.  This, of course, did not readily improve his breathing, but Bashir continued overseeing him carefully as he drifted down from his orgasm.  Bashir still did not know what to ask - if it felt good, if it was what Garak expected, if he would _trust_ him from now on?

“Was this the only sample you needed?” Garak asked smugly, staring upside down at the front door from his current position.  

“Yes,” Bashir replied, after taking a full minute to think of what to say.  “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t _like_ a few more, just to be sure…”

*****

_Dr Julian Bashir_  
_Personal Log  
_ _0945 hours_

Last night’s encounter was much, _much_ better.  I’m sure Garak was honest with me throughout, and I used all I understood, so far, of his limiting devices, without causing him any more pain than I felt comfortable with.  It is likely he will want to push this boundary with me, but as long as I remain firm with him, he seems to do as I say.

I remained in his cabin overnight, and he was insistent I share the bed with him.  It’s… nice, to see him making this more casual and _normal_ from my perspective.  I appreciate that, even if he says it’s only so I can keep him warm, after working out all of his energy for the night… I do believe he _is_ cold blooded, after all.

Both of us had work to do, this morning, and his began even before my first appointment.  I stopped by his shop on the way, to watch him with a customer.  He claimed, while I was being, perhaps, overbearingly domestic, sitting still naked in his bed with my raktajino, that this was one of his favorite customers, someone who came to see him regularly.  He’d never mentioned a _regular_ to me before, and I was curious.

It turned out to be a Vulcan woman, an ambassador I did not recognize on sight, but who seemed comfortable enough with Garak to support his claims of visiting often.  I did not go inside.

But I passed by the windows slowly, and I watched him _serve._ He was so attentive, checking his work several times, holding his measuring device carefully and at a respectful distance from the woman’s body… pieces of him were suddenly starting to make sense to me.  Even if he never had any desire to be a tailor, he was doing it _well_ , and clearly found some satisfaction in serving this particular customer - I knew he did not like _all_ of his customers; he made that much obvious for as long as I’d known him.  But I know that he likes to have his abilities recognized, and praised, and, as I can recall, all of his strongest relationships are based around this practice.

I feel like he _wants_ to give me the same kind of attention and devotion, even if the circumstances were not the result of his own choice.  All the snide comments could just be to mask this, while he tries to come to terms with it, himself.  I imagine it _is_ a lot to process, and not all of it is his fault - I don’t mean ‘fault’ in a derogatory sense, but… I mean, to an extent, his own actions made him the way he is now, but he was certainly _conditioned_ to behave that way, first.  I don’t want him to think he’s done anything wrong, I want him to feel comfortable with the idea of… serving me.  I need to feel comfortable with it, too, of course, but I am already impressed by the progress we have made in such a short time.  Maybe I shouldn’t be - we’re both supposedly quick learners, and this has been years in the making - but I _am_ , and I want Elim to be, as well.


	7. 03:13

Over a casual lunch, Bashir formulated their next encounter.  Garak was going _on_ and _on_ about a ‘problem’ with his quarters, which Chief O’Brien would not fix without a medical release. His cabin had only been minimally converted when the Federation arrived, to ensure it was not harboring diplomatic secrets.  While the rest had been outfitted with sonic showers, Garak’s cabin was gifted with a sonic, and the bathing basin was left intact in a private, adjoining room.

But Garak did not use it, anymore, because the Federation decided to limit the output temperature to their own safety standard. Now, he was soliciting Bashir’s seal of approval, while remaining uninterested in his opinion.

“Stop manipulating me, Elim,” Bashir leaned over his lunch tray and spoke quietly, but still with a definite edge.

The Cardassian touched his own chest with splayed fingers.

“No, you _are_ , and we can’t have _that_ anymore, can we?” Bashir continued.

If it was a hot bath Garak wanted, Bashir would accept that responsibility as a component of his role. He was working hard at dividing his desire to _take care_ from his prospect of _ownership_ , and Garak’s compulsion to _take control_ from a display of _begging_ ; there was a way for Garak to ask and Bashir to provide, but their dynamic had not properly opened to this yet. It was still Garak pushing manipulation through his teeth in public, and Bashir fussing over him in return; the only difference was that they addressed each other by given name this time. 

That evening, slightly before his shift was scheduled to end, Bashir was waiting in Garak’s quarters, so far the only place they felt intimately comfortable.  And, in this case, the only place on the station with a full bathing compartment.  He dimmed the lights somewhat past his own comfort, and set the air temperature to match the surrounding average of the habitat ring, overriding the heating program Garak had fought months for.

‘Service’ was the overarching theme of this encounter, an arch Bashir had cobbled together in the time since their lunch.  Even if it was not hugely adventurous, Bashir thought it was necessary, and he _knew_ it was something Garak would enjoy.  He was still adjusting, himself, and did not want to push any boundaries with too much force, just yet.  Maybe in a month or two, he could picture them doing something truly _wild_! - but for now…

Bashir’s purpose was not to surprise Garak, so he reclined on the sofa in plain view of the entrance, and spoke to Garak as soon as he arrived home.

“Do you trust me?”

Garak stifled several trained replies, like ‘why should I?’ and ‘not always’ and chose, wisely, to say, “yes, Julian.  I do.”  

The cooler air and dimmer lights were, of course, noticeable to Garak immediately, even before the cabin door sealed shut behind him.  He crossed his arms and huddled into himself, in demonstration of this, while Bashir produced a selection of darkly-dyed fabric strips from the seat beside him.  

“Come with me.”

Obediently, Garak took Bashir’s cues and preceded him to the bathing compartment, where the bare upper shelf of the cabinet had been filled with Garak’s candle collection, all lit and safely - even teasingly - out of reach.  The cabinet itself, then, was open, presenting a stove-plate on one shelf, activated to warm a line of water pitchers, and more pitchers on the second shelf, without the aid of a heater.  As a result of the new items’ presence, all of Garak’s personal hygiene implements were crowded onto the third and lowest shelf; he had a large enough selection of scale oils, soothing salves, and perfumed lotions to cover the surface entirely, so that any surprise movement could cause them all to tumble down like a line of dominoes.  Clearly, Bashir had spent some time and care on the arrangement, and Garak wondered just how long the man had been hiding in his quarters.  If he had only known, he would have come back from his shop much earlier, not even to rush toward intimacy, but merely to watch Bashir’s thoughtful preparations.

Garak took the sight in quietly, and upon further inspection, found the faucet reinforced with an entirely new line of pipe, which did not connect at all to the digital panel on the side of the original.

“Don’t tell me I managed to manipulate you after all,” he said, faking disbelief in place of the usual disappointment.

“No, no,” Bashir replied, “and you aren’t about to start.  I installed that myself, and it doesn’t do _anything_.  Well, it doesn’t do anything more than an ordinary duritanium post could… namely, keep you _still_.”

“Ah,” said Garak, eyes gleaming with excitement.

“First…” Bashir continued idly, drawing Garak nearer to listen, and crossing one of the fabric strips over his forehead.  

It remained there, tickling Garak’s _chufa_ , while Bashir went on.

“...since you are willing to trust me, and _serve_ me…”

He unfolded the crease of it, so the fabric fell over Garak’s eyes and obscured his vision, without depriving it completely.  This was only a shred of silk, after all, which Bashir had chosen not for its opacity, but for its pleasant texture and notable tensile strength.

With the blindfold securely tied, Bashir took a step backward and initiated the _encounter_ with his first command, “ _Undress_.”

Smiling thinly, mischievously, Garak complied.  He found all of the fasteners with expert speed, and let the articles fall onto the tile, much to Bashir’s satisfaction, even when the cool air made him shiver.  Some of his smaller scales tensed up, unable to delegate enough of his blood-flow to stave off the cold.  That would be changing, soon enough.

“Good,” Bashir said carefully.  He did not see a problem with over-issuing praise to Garak, who craved and, in fact, _needed_ it, but he had to do so at varying levels to remain effective.  “Now, the same for me.”

Garak was altogether too tactile, but Bashir did enjoy it.  He came forward and, in an overzealous search for the hidden zipper at the back of Bashir’s uniform, pulled Bashir against himself, his thigh occupying the space between Bashir’s legs at he stood firmly.  He could have so easily wrapped himself into the embrace, but he _did_ have a task to complete.

Having undone the zipper, he let the upper half of the uniform fall and pool up naturally at the cinched beltline, mourning when Bashir caught him exploring the the new bulge of fabric with a not-subtle-enough roll of his hips.  Bashir then stepped out of the trousers and tried to kick them away, which of course Garak heard instead of saw.  The boots would have to come off next, or Garak could easily picture Bashir tripping and falling over.  Too easily, in fact.

He fell to his knees and undid these zippers as well - Starfleet relied _much_ too heavily on outdated _zippers_ \- and helped Bashir step out, one leg at a time.  Bashir praised his attentiveness with a warming touch to his shoulder ridge, and he sighed.  Newly energized, he stood again and slipped his hands eagerly beneath Bashir’s rollneck, sliding it upward and off over his head.  It was so tight, and so thin, that Garak felt the outline of his muscles just as well with it off as he could with it on.  He explored for a moment with both hands, and Bashir allowed him to stroke his chest, the faint outline of muscle at his abdomen, the dip of his hipbone, the patch of curls above his cock… he caught Garak’s hand _there_ and removed it.  His nudity, for now, was only so he would not feel like he was treating Garak professionally; there was more to be done before he would let Garak _arouse_ him.

“Into the bathtub, now,” he said, “I’ll help you.”

With a steady grip on Garak’s forearms, Bashir lowered him into the empty tub. Being of Cardassian design, it was made in an angular, symmetrical shape, of which Garak could nestle comfortably into the narrower side. Bashir then took care to fold his legs and push him to rest further up the wall, so his hands could be tied together above his head, fastened securely to the redundant line of pipe. The silk glimmered in response to the candlelight, and Bashir could only assume Garak’s eyes were doing the same.

He settled down between Garak’s legs, reassuringly touching him all the time, drawing patterns over the patch of scaling on his inner thighs. Leaving one hand in place, he reached up to take a pitcher of hot water from the shelf.

Carefully, he leaned over and poured the liquid directly into Garak’s _chufa_. It dribbled down through his blindfold, and emerged in a method usually practiced by tears. The dry marble of the tub was cold, and Garak struggled to keep still without reassurance.

“Alright, that’s okay, Elim,” Bashir said kindly. “Steady now, trust me…”

The objective was simple and implied, appealing brilliantly to Garak’s usual preferences: keep the water in place, make his master _happy_.  Pooling water was not nearly as dangerous as pooling wax, and Bashir ensured Garak could withstand the temperature of it.

He tried the _chufa_ again, watching the muscles tense up in Garak’s throat, listening to the sharp breath Garak pulled in through his teeth. Whatever water the fabric did not soak up remained in place, and Bashir rubbed Garak’s neck in earnest, to praise him.  Then he pulled his hands downward, stopping to one side of the pectoral ridge that framed the _chula_.

“Tell me, Elim, what else do you like, aside from heat?”

No answer was forthcoming; Garak was trying to decide just how to word it, if at all.

From the middle shelf, Bashir procured a cabin-temperature pitcher, which Garak would find cold by comparison. An answer would be worked out of him one way or another.

Bashir splattered the cool water over Garak's chest. Some of it caught inside his _chula_ , and he shivered and gasped. There was now a shallow foundation of lukewarm water in the tub, and Bashir’s free hand snaked around from Garak’s belly to his back, before reaching down and clicking the device into place to seal the drain.

Taking mercy, Bashir leaned in low, licking and sucking the cool water from Garak’s ridge. He replaced this with hot water and watched the subtle change in Garak’s breathing, the diffusing of purplish color in his scales.  He had it in mind to test Garak’s claim of everting with _only_ the application of heat; while offering variation made the test unsound, it also amplified Garak’s reactions.  Soon, he struggled to hold still at all, and the muscles in his arms tremored after being extended for so long.

Bashir did not repeat his full question, only the original command: “tell me.”  He added, “it’s alright, Elim, let yourself react,’ after Garak had clenched himself up tight, and whimpered, afraid of doing anything wrong beyond his control. The promise of release - of stress, of responsibility - appealed greatly to Garak, but he was so practiced, so trained, at doing the opposite, taking interest and control in every variable detail a situation presented. Bashir had not been imposing enough to force Garak’s guard down, and was almost too gentle for Garak to let it fall naturally.

One by one, and alternating the types of pitcher, Bashir poured the water over Garak's body and gradually filled the basin. The water level ended just below Bashir’s waist, as he knelt down flat. Garak did evert, part way through the exercise, as he squirmed and made the hot water cascade down from his _chuva_ and into his gaping slit. The warmth only served to further spread his folds, and he slipped forward easily.

Bashir was halfway through complimenting his appearance, the beauty of the theatrical display he had given, when Garak cut him off with a gasp, before biting his own lip and rolling his head from side to side, tapping against each of his arms. They were both enjoying themselves, but Garak was hoping to solicit one final step.

He went on writhing in this way, having to guess what kind of expression Bashir was giving.  The human followed the trickles of water much the same as he had the wax, licking over the trail and kissing when he reached a particularly sensitive endpoint.

Garak whimpered, and surprised himself.

“I want to be kept _quiet_ ,” he mumbled.

In near-disbelief, Bashir blinked, but kept applying firm kisses, determined not to let Garak notice anything amiss. For a Cardassian to be quiet, to _want_ to be quiet, was the most submissive gesture he was aware of.  Here he was, having carelessly commanded Garak to speak and reply to him - he only wanted to ensure his consent - but it was unnecessary and, apparently, unpleasant.  Something here had made Garak feel internally special, and safe, to the point of making this request against his trained judgement, and these feelings only grew stronger when Bashir mirrored them in himself.

“Alright then, Elim,” he said with a grin, pausing to nip at his thigh, “I don’t want to hear a word from you, not a sound, unless it’s my name.”

“Nnn--,” Garak groaned and shook his head, giving up on finishing a ‘no.’ “I need to be forced, please.”

While Garak had plenty of practical experience with being obedient, he was rarely in a position he could not talk his way out of. His feeling of true, submissive freedom hinged entirely on whether or not he could manipulate his master, and Bashir understood, when it was phrased like that.  Maybe he could learn to be _ordered_ silent, but Bashir was too gentle to do that effectively, just yet.

Bashir braced himself with one hand on Garak’s chest, leaning close to tug his blindfold loose. There would need to be some kind of compromise that might allow him to read Garak’s reactions, even though Garak was notoriously good at disguising them and Bashir was equally bad at differentiating them. But at least the option existed.

He slipped the wet strip of silk downward, slotting it into Garak's waiting mouth, tying it tight.  What was he supposed to say _now,_ when Garak was fully expecting rough treatment and would not be able to throw him off?

“Open for me.”

*****

 _E Garak  
_ _Personal Log  
_ _(recorded on Dr.  
_ _Bashir’s home console)  
_ _0313 hours_  
  
  
I cannot believe myself. 


	8. 12:05

Eagerly, Garak obeyed, folding his legs up closer to his chest, granting Bashir whatever access he wanted.

“Hmm mm,” Bashir tutted, momentarily forgetting the silence was one-sided.  “ _Here_.”

He took Garak’s legs up one at a time, by each knee, and folded them to rest over the sides of the tub.  When Garak winced at this, clenching his teeth around the fabric, Bashir compromised and left one draped over the wall, and the other more comfortably inside the basin.  Garak was in decent shape, otherwise, and Bashir felt a bit foolish, _needing_ this reminder that he was older and not as readily flexible.  Nothing else on his body would suggest this: his eyes were bright, clever, and attentive, his muscles tensed silently, and his joints did not creak, _and_ \- most refreshingly of all - he lost none of the progress of his eversion while Bashir took the time out to prepare him.  If anything, he grew stiffer and stiffer, begging quietly for Bashir’s attention.

The sight was enchanting, everything Bashir had fantasized for years about - albeit with a younger and generally female-aligned alien partner, but this was perfectly fine, too.  Some of the water brushed Garak’s _cloaca_ when he shook under the tension, and Bashir knelt lower to taste him, before the water could spoil his chance entirely; he had every intention of releasing Garak’s ties and running a full bath before they were finished, tonight.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Garak breathed.  Then he made a two syllable sound that was supposed to say ‘ _lovely_ ,’ which Bashir only understood because, in the context of the moment, he wanted to say the exact same thing.

He began by licking delicately at the ornate ridgeline that ran up the underside of Garak’s cock, from the base to the very tip, meeting the first of the seminal ducts.  From there, he sucked the head softly between his lips, laving the duct with his tongue, before experimentally pressing his bottom row of teeth up to meet the ridge.  In response, Garak squirmed _beautifully_ , only encouraging Bashir to go on.  But really, their newfound progress was not any good if Bashir was not speaking, either; he had to free his mouth, difficult as it was to pull away from the sweet, sticky offering Garak gave for his worship.

Leaning back, and wiping his mouth on his wrist, he was able to meet Garak’s eyes again.  There was so much _desire_ in them, so much that Bashir was afraid of disappointing.  Was _that_ it? He thought to himself, Was that the only thing keeping him from _enjoying_ this properly?

“Not a _sound_ ,” he said, running his hands teasingly up Garak’s chest, and then his arms, until he reached the knots at his hands.  

First, he unhooked them from the duritanium pipe and moved them, still bound together, over Garak’s head, then his own.  They remained clasped behind Bashir’s neck, ensuring the two of them would remain in close and relatively stable contact.  Garak flared his nostrils and took in a deep breath, setting his forehead against Bashir’s for a moment, while Bashir tried to decide just how gentle and accommodating he was meant to be, now.

He carefully unhooked Garak’s leg from its position over the tub’s edge, and drew it up against Garak’s chest, to match the other.  

“Watch me, and stay _silent_.”

His eyes dove down, and Garak’s remained interlocked with them, following with barely a moment’s delay.  Together, they took in the sight of Bashir’s half-hard cock, which, to Garak’s delight, he began to _touch_.  He encircled it with one hand, and pumped the shaft up and down, repeatedly.

“Nnh--” Garak grunted through the silk, causing Bashir to cease the motion.

“You like that?” he asked, knowing on good authority that Cardassians _liked_ a bit of teasing and contradiction in their courtship.  

Garak’s focus returned urgently to Bashir’s eye level, waiting for him to catch up and accept the apology nonverbally.

“I can’t give you any more stimulation, _darling_ ,” Bashir was unsure where the name arrived from, but it seemed to fit, and he went on as if he had said it a hundred times before, “if you can’t even focus on a single source.  Now…”

Garak nodded and looked down again, to where Bashir resumed his rhythm.  

“I want to give you more than you know what to _do_ with,” Bashir went on, filling the time until he felt ready, himself.

Satisfied with his erection, he pulled Garak more firmly against himself, holding around his back with one arm while the other stretched to turn on the faucet.  The water was hot and flowed steadily, but not too forcefully; it would take some time for the tub to fill, and if they moved too much, some would spill out, anyway.

“You do _not_ orgasm until the water is _here_ \--” Bashir indicated his standard by pressing a chaste kiss to the center of Garak’s bicep, before marking the place more obviously with his teeth. “Or I will drain it, and we will start again, and the water will be _cold_ until you can follow instructions.”

Again, Garak nodded, and bit at his gag, in mere consideration of being forced to climax in cold water.  He trained his gaze on each movement Bashir made, each little twitch of the muscles in his penis, as he pulled Garak into his lap and sought out his entrance.

“ _And_ ,” Bashir added, revelling in his confidence until at least some of it was genuine - he’d had sex in a shower before, this could not be so different - “you will not make a _sound_ until then, either.”

He slid up as far as he could into Garak’s _cloaca_ , reclining somewhat and allowing Garak the discretion - but not the control - of his own movement.  When Garak shifted and pressed his body down further, Bashir was surprised to find himself stroking the base of Garak’s sheath, buried deep inside.  This angle was _much_ better than the one they had managed on the bed, and it took a good deal of Bashir’s self-control not to cry out at this new discovery.

But why shouldn’t he?  He thought, promptly reminding himself that he and Garak were _not_ equals; Garak did not _want_ them to be, he would take no pleasure in _that_ .  He yelped and locked his hands firmly over Garak’s hipbones, or at least the best approximation, beneath the soft curve of Garak’s belly.  He felt soft and safe, for a moment, and then promptly pulled Garak _hard_ over himself.

“You thought I’d make this easy for you, Elim?”

Garak had gasped and stretched his mouth, pulling the fabric taut, but he still remained quiet.  The man was a _marvel,_ all Bashir’s to explore.

“Move for me, then, Elim.”

Closing his mouth again - Bashir watched his breathing carefully, studying the rise of his chest and the widening of his nostrils - Garak rolled his hips forward again.  The waterline crept up his thigh, and Bashir nodded encouragingly at him.

“Go on, Elim, nice and steady… I’ve got you.”

He took hold of Garak’s own aimless cock, and settled it carefully between their bodies, where it rubbed _just_ firmly enough over Bashir’s abdomen to make Garak shiver.  The human skin, especially now with so much blood rushing down to this area, coated both with water and some of Garak’s fluid, shrouded with furry little hairs, felt _so_ warm and enticing.  Garak was tempted to move more quickly, but he knew he could not outpace the water.  Oh, it was _cruel_ , and it hurt him in a single, primal, purely psychological way; Bashir was some kind of _genius_.

Garak bent his arms, pulling himself as close as he could, and Bashir responded with encouraging kisses to his aural ridge, biting down when Garak gave too audible a breath.  He went on rolling his hips, taking Bashir further and further inside, scraping his base and _wanting_ to voice his appreciation.  Wisely, he remained quiet, but the desire consumed him.

“Too much, darling?” he teased, and Garak wanted to say something about that name, too.

Maybe he was being unfair, expecting Garak to focus on too many objectives at once, but, for a man without a _subconscious,_ it should not have posed an impossible challenge.  He eased up only slightly, assigning all of the mental discipline to a single requirement, and taking on the physical responsibilities for himself.  

“I’ll take care of you, Elim,” he said, gently guiding Garak to rest against the tub wall again, letting the warm water cascade down his back and then shoulder, when Bashir thrusted into him.  “Just keep in mind that you’re _mine_ , for the time being, and you need to do as I say.”

While Garak intended to nod, he ended up throwing his head back as he thrashed; Bashir was not being so gentle, anymore.  The water was climbing constantly, and sloshed around Bashir’s midsection.  Garak scooted back, raising his shoulders, trying to maintain the height of the mark Bashir made on his arm, the one that would determine his climax.  This was not a game he wanted to cheat at, even if all the regulations tempted him; he wanted to be seen making a conscious effort to do as he was told.

For Garak’s sake, Bashir tried to downplay his own endurance, but Garak was so _needy_ , tonight.  The forced silence had almost undone him already, and the little gasping mewls he gave heightened Bashir’s pleasure, in turn, until neither of them expected to hold out until the water level reached Garak’s arm.  He gripped around Garak’s penis to stave him off, as he had learned from the _haylen_ , but the benefit was only temporary.  Bashir considered reaching for the faucet and increasing the output setting, but a different solution occurred to him on his way there.  Garak’s hands remained tied together, crossed behind his neck, and as he leaned over, Garak was forced to slide lower against the wall, shivering as his shoulders were forced against the cold marble, while the hot water cascaded down his chest.  The bitemark had been reached, and Garak surrendered to the shocking contrast while Bashir reached to turn off the water.

Garak sobbed around his gag, focused on remaining quiet, as he spilled himself between their bodies.  Pleased with his resolve, Bashir tore away the silk, allowing Garak the chance to take in a deep breath before smothering his mouth, sharing his breath and _feeling_ his startled cry reverberate against his tongue.  He went on kissing after the last of Garak’s semen had splattered his abdomen, clinging to the soft flesh and gradually weighing itself down into the water, and he went on thrusting after this, too, while Garak was completely pliant beneath him, still not speaking.

“I need _\- oh_ \- just a little longer, Elim.  May I?”

The nod was not sufficient for this step, Garak knew.  He managed an, “ah… _ah_ , yes,” and shimmied his hands down from Bashir’s neck to his waist, pulling him deeper inside.

By the time Bashir came, the water around them had cooled significantly.  He pulled Garak close up against his chest, and reached with his other hand - still surprisingly steady - to both drain the basin and then refill it with water, as hot as the dial would allow.  Garak was already preparing to leave between these steps, so Bashir made sure to complete them in quick succession.

“No, it’s alright, darling,” Bashir panted, which made it sound even more genuine, “I’m not rushing off anywhere, and neither are you.”

He pulled out of Garak’s _cloaca_ , leaving it soiled, brimming with his seed, overflowing gently into the resurging current of water.  

“You don’t need to speak if you don’t want to,” Bashir continued, “but you _are_ going to let me clean you up, now.”

Garak was relieved to hear both points, there, and let Bashir rearrange their positions so he was reclining against Bashir’s warm chest, instead of the cool wall.  Everything felt so muted and comfortable in the candlelight, and the compulsion to speak all but completely vanished in this atmosphere, even with the restraint released.  Bashir untied his hands, letting Garak slump more comfortably forward, having spent the previous hour with his arms forced upward.  Then he held Garak close and nuzzled his neck, and reached to the lowest cabinet shelf for a brush and one of the vials of oil.

He preferred to be affectionate, at this point in intimacy, and… it finally felt _right_ to do so with Garak; all it took was him expressing a desire not to speak, to be subjected to his partner’s _voice_ for the entirety of the evening.  Bashir would have no trouble filling the silence, that was certain.  Perhaps they were better matched than either expected to be.

Between sprinkling little kisses to Garak’s temple, Bashir would feel for his pulse in his throat and scrub at the stains on his stomach.  Gently, he massaged Garak’s penis with the oil, until he was once again soft enough to retract into his sheath.  Cardassians were so delicate, underneath all their outward insistence on the opposite, and it made Bashir feel almost sentimental, for a moment.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he mentioned, trying to sound casual about it, “I recognize that it took a lot of effort, and I appreciate it.”

Garak turned to give him a quizzical look, but accepted the praise nonetheless, even if it was a bit sterile for his tastes.

“I… I’m not sure if I’ve ever had the chance to make a partner feel good in quite that way, before,” Bashir continued.  “It’s all been… fairly standard, routine, even.  And this is, er… this is _different_.”

Of course, Garak had _always_ known humans to be delicate, vulnerable in ways he could see constantly in their posture, in the way they spoke, the way they would cast their eyes down when they became even slightly embarrassed.  But he had never received it as a valid currency of intimacy, only as something pillaged from opponents he had made forcibly uncomfortable.  This was different, indeed.

“I think I’m beginning to understand what you _want_ , Elim.  And it’s _alright_.  I mean, I want you to feel safe asking me for anything, and I will do _everything_ in my power to give it to you.”

He rubbed Garak’s belly clean with only his hands, now, feeling the scales soften beneath his touch.  Garak remained still for this, enjoying the attention, but also deep in thought.

“Your power,” he echoed, without further explanation.

“That’s right,” said Bashir, taking Garak’s cue. “And I don’t know about _you_ , but I’ve got work in a couple of hours, and I’m not about to go in looking like _this_.”

With one wide, sweeping gesture, he covered the whole expanse of his body, and, while Garak did not see anything obviously wrong, he delighted in using his hands for such delicate work.  And under _orders_ , nonetheless.

He gave meticulous attention to Bashir’s hair, conditioning it with one of his own products and massaging gently with his fingers, lathering with the soap and rinsing with individual handfuls of water.  Then he scrubbed the rest of Bashir’s body with a soft sponge, working downward from his neck and taking particular interest in the way his spine stood out at certain angles, almost like a ridge.  Both of them enjoyed the contact an equal, and great, amount.  It had been years since Bashir had subjected _himself_ to a bath - his _parents_ had subjected him to baths when he was very young, but it was different - and he had never had a companion so deeply focused on him, throughout.  He had not expected to enjoy it so much.

When the water was cool again, and Garak quietly deemed his work finished, they stood together and helped to towel-dry one another, patting gently, not rubbing to agitate the newly relaxed skin.  Garak did not feel prepared to be left alone again, and Bashir, eager to be a good partner, invited him along to his cabin, even though he did not have much time left to spend there, himself.

“I’m just going to sleep for--” he asked the computer the time, “--about forty minutes.  But you’re, uh, welcome to come with…”

*****

 _Dr Julian Bashir  
_ _Personal Log  
_ _1205 hours_  

Garak left a recording on my console right after I left for work and… I thought it went incredibly well, last night, even if it was a bit odd for him to want to come home with me for less than an _hour_ , afterward… I should’ve known, why didn’t I _know_?

I’m afraid I must’ve left him feeling… precarious, and I should not have left, if he still needed me. 

I should be able to catch him in his shop before he goes to lunch…


	9. 14:45

Upon his arrival, Bashir found the doors to Garak’s shop locked already.  Garak, however, was sitting in plain view of them at his workstation, where he was meticulously selecting tiny, individual gemstones from a pile and then hand-stitching them to the collar of a blouse.  When he caught sight of Bashir, he opened the doors temporarily, inviting Bashir in before sealing them again.

He knew better than to be vague when approaching Garak with a line of questions - he really didn’t have time to have his entire existence deconstructed before he got a clear answer - but he was too concerned to put in this level of thought, beforehand, and it was too late to withdraw.

“Is everything alright?”

“Hmm?” said Garak, glancing up and readjusting the magnifying glasses he wore for this task.  “Oh, yes, Doctor, of course.  Won’t you sit down?”

“Why aren’t you using my name?” Bashir asked, taking the seat at the other end of the desk.

“You were asking how I _feel_.”

Tuning his glasses again, Garak returned to sifting through the pile of gems, while Bashir studied him.

“I was asking that as a _partner_ ,” Bashir amended, and waited for Garak’s hand to be empty and still before reaching to hold it; Garak was happy to give him this opportunity.  “I was irresponsible as a, um, as _your_ Dominant, leaving you alone if you were still vulnerable.  Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Garak fidgeted in his seat, genuinely unsure if Bashir was… genuinely unsure, or if he really had learned to exploit his connections, after all.  In either case, Garak personally maintained the fault.

“I _had_ hoped it would work, if I stayed silent, and yet--”

“Elim, I _told_ you: there’s nothing wrong with that, I can work with that if that’s what you _like_ \--”

“No, I mean… I should not have been able to manipulate you for my own benefit.  It appears I am _hopeless_.”

“ _What_?”

Both of Garak’s hands dug into the pile of beads, now, eager for distraction.

“I could not think of a more submissive gesture, but I still, somehow, failed to _actually_ submit to you, and I’m…” he grew very quiet, “ashamed.”

“What?” Bashir demanded, again.

“Repeating the fact will not make me feel any better about it, dear.”

“Sorry…” Bashir watched Garak sort obsessively through his beads, and tried to understand his actions in congruency with his words, “You didn’t - Elim, _no_ \- you didn’t _manipulate_ me.  Into what, the hot water, your _orgasm_?”

He leaned in, over the pile, and spoke softly, even though they were safe from unexpected visitors for the time being.

“I gave those to you because I _wanted_ to.  I care about you, and this is _exciting_ , and I want you to be happy.  You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe you would be capable of withholding either, in the first place.”

“Then that--” Bashir’s mind rattled around the concept, “--that would make _me_ the ineffective partner, then, wouldn’t it?”

A cultural disparity remained that Garak could not quite unwind into clear speech: he felt the fault was his, and always would be, by nature of their roles.  He was meant to offer _himself,_ and he could not; he was not Bashir’s to take.  If Garak had been able to express this, Bashir would have agreed.  Regardless, he was sure he did not want Garak to feel _hopeless_.

“I care about you a great deal, Elim.  And if you need me to be more clear about that, I will.”

He did not want to consider the motivation of this too strongly - he had seen more than enough of Garak’s past and personal life for them to either become distant or… whatever they were, now.  But the fact was, he could understand why Garak might feel unsure of himself, why he might not understand _love_ as something to accept as a freely-given gift among equals.  Even if they were not precisely equals, in their intimate arrangement, Bashir did not want him to feel truly inferior, not for any reason.

The next time Garak selected a bead, after a long and quiet deliberation, Bashir smiled fondly and watched him set it into place.  He waited until the loop was stitched and the line was finished before reaching for Garak’s hand again.

“I want you to understand that I _love_ you, Elim, and I’m not going to deny you anything - uh, within reason, I suppose - that might make you just a _bit_ happier.  Can you accept that?”

“You aren’t going to commit treason for me?” Garak asked, removing his glasses.

Since the deflection was a natural and harmless response - and a point he did not want to argue - Bashir let it slide without comment.  Instead, he stood and retained Garak’s hand between his own, and led him into the back dressing room, furthest from the front door.

He released his hold only to shut the door behind them, and then he stood behind Garak, nudging him to step closer to the mirror.

“This feels very trite, doesn’t it?” remarked Garak, when Bashir began rubbing his shoulders.

They watched their reflection together, until Garak’s muscles eventually relaxed, and he dropped the argument along with the physical tension.

The room was not often needed by customers, and held stacks of pieces shoppers had lost interest in.  Some were pinned to dressforms, modeled into a variety of alien species, while others were folded and piled against the wall.  It had a certain warmth to it, an additional level of insulation that Bashir enjoyed.  And so did Garak, on a physical level, but all of the abandoned projects and unwanted commissions offered nothing but mental distress.

Bashir could see the little furl of his lips whenever he looked for too long at the pinned up clothing, but he had a point to make.  Garak’s physical comfort was his priority, even in unpleasant places, with the hope they could become pleasurable themselves, in time.

“May I undress you?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not.”

“A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ only, Elim.”

There was no reason for prolonging the argument.

“Yes.”

Bashir worked slowly and gently, as Garak had demonstrated with his beading project.  He unrolled Garak’s tunic upward from its hem, over his belly, over his head, over his shoulders, before it was off.  Then it was placed carefully on top of the nearest pile, and Garak could not help but appreciate the symbolism of the gesture.

But it did make his chest feel _cold_.  The scales rippled and tensed, until Bashir’s hands arrived, shocking them at first, but eventually soothing them and gradually raising their temperature again.  Bashir thought it was strange that Garak had chosen to wear only the single layer, and found the same when he unfastened Garak’s trousers, with the exception of a lower-than-usual set of socks, and a thinner-than-usual undergarment.  Maybe the whole situation was strange, then.  He bit his lip as he helped Garak step out of his underwear.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Bashir assured, when he noticed Garak still looking a bit hesitant.  “I want you to _see_ that I care about you.”

“I feel ridiculous,” Garak said, staring down his reflection in the wall-mirror.

“Yes, that’s the part I want to change.”

“I think you are making this up as you go along, Julian.”

“And _I_ think you’re only arguing because you’re _aroused_.”

Garak bit back a full laugh at _that_.

“At the sight of myself in the mirror?  Please, Julian; even I am not that vain.”

Bashir stood in the space between Garak and the mirror, holding his shoulders and squeezing them firmly, reassuringly.

“At the thought of what I could do, with just a short time…”

His hands remained on Garak’s skin as he slid downward, kneeling to nuzzle Garak’s _cloaca_ , sealed for now.  The scales over it needed attention and a warming touch before they could part to reveal Garak’s slit.

“Here is what I want,” Bashir said, tipping his chin up and waiting for Garak to meet his stare, “I want you to evert into my mouth.  I want you to watch yourself while I pleasure you, and I want you to understand what I see in you that makes it impossible for me to deny you.  Now, you don’t think you’re capable of manipulating me while I’ve got your, er…” Bashir blinked heavily, “your cock in my mouth, do you?”

“No, Julian.”

“Good.  Then maybe you’ll start believing me?”

“I hope so--” but when Bashir quirked his brow, unamused, Garak added, “Yes.”

Bashir steadied his hands at Garak’s hips, forcing him to roll forward and back again, slowly.  The stimulation mounted itself, in a way, encouraging Garak to go on even after Bashir’s hands moved lower, to part his thighs from the inside.  With his slit stretching, and his hips moving more eagerly, Garak found he was nearly satisfied to evert, already.  He just wanted to wait for…

 _Yes_ , for Bashir’s tongue to slip inside and study him, gracing his closed slit in a steady, vertical pattern, from top to bottom and back again.  Garak watched himself in the mirror, the subtle way his shoulders tensed but then fell slack, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges, and the way his optical ridges drew inward at this, as if to mask the vulnerability.  It was all so very _small_ , and yet, he knew it was exactly what Bashir meant, exactly what he noticed when they were together.  One could say what they wanted about Bashir’s hardships understanding conversation; the man could read a body in fine print.

Somehow, this did not make Garak feel powerful, despite the influence each of his little movements had over Bashir’s responses.  No, Bashir was exactly right: he felt much too vulnerable right now to even think of this as personal conquest.  All of his movements were involuntary, understood and _caused_ by his keeper.

Soon, he everted just as Bashir wanted, falling wet and cool against Bashir’s lower lip.  There was not time for embarrassment, either, because Bashir had already taken him between both lips, and began working him up and down until his length was slick enough to be admitted further into his mouth.

Garak shut his eyes for a moment, at this, but made a point to stare into his reflection again as soon as he regained control of himself.  This was wonderful and _exciting_ , and not entirely common among Cardassians, who preferred to use their mouths for _speaking_.  He would give Bashir the satisfaction of that fact, later, if he had not guessed already.

“Mm,” Bashir said, as he pulled back, “ _god_ , Elim.  Let me have you…”

Garak gave a whimper as Bashir took him back into his mouth, greedily, to make the best use of their limited time.  The tone was just what Garak needed - giving himself, but as an offering, not as a favor he expected to see returned, not as an exercise of power.  Bashir was equally influential with his mouth closed; he teased the ducts with his upper lip as he provided increasingly tight suction.  Garak squirmed over him.

He continued pressing Garak’s thigh firmly with one hand, and allowed the other to drift inward to Garak’s slit.  His fingers dipped inside gently, and he swirled them in little circles, mirroring the work of his tongue.  When he opened his mouth, teasing Garak with a hot breath of air, he fed himself from Garak’s slit, humming around his fingers with satisfaction.  Garak, meanwhile, studied his own reaction, and found his scales swelling rapidly, almost painfully; he thought it was wonderful. He shivered and sweated at the same time, and his cock twitched in Bashir’s mouth, drawing to a stop against his throat.

“I’m sorry, I--”

“ _Elim_ ,” Bashir regretted that Garak required him to pull back so often, and worried some of the intended sensation would be lost, but, at the same time, he could not leave Garak without sufficient reassurance.  It was best to make assumptions, in this case:  “I haven’t done this recently, myself, but I know my limits.  You’re doing _fine_.”

Again, his lips crept upward and gradually came to a close.  He rocked his head forward and back as he moved further, finally coming to rest with his nose faintly brushing Garak’s seam, focusing his gaze up on Garak’s face.  It took a great deal of focus for Garak to keep his own eyes open, at this point, and he continued twitching and pulsing against Bashir’s hold.

Bashir conceded to himself that he had been, perhaps, a bit hasty.  The room itself was small and full of things Garak valued - he would spare any of these scraps to get himself cleaned up with.  Garak was thinking along the same line as he edged closer to his orgasm, and began looking down at Bashir’s face instead of at his own in the mirror.

“Julian…?” he led, “Perhaps you should stop before I can… offend.”

He took Garak’s base in his hand when he withdrew his mouth, this time, just slightly annoyed.

“ _Offend_?  Elim, if you mean ‘ejaculate,’ that’s kind of the _entire point_ of this encounter, so will you please--”

Still, Garak could not get himself to see the gesture in a polite or desirable context; he had never heard of a Cardassian soiling a companion’s sacred _mouth_ this way.  

“--just _let me_ have you?  I _want to_ , you’re not going to hurt me…”

What a wonderful feeling, to be so gently overthrown.  Garak felt adventurous, doing something unheard of on his homeworld, but also completely safe in Bashir’s care.  Humans were so… soft, and strange, and lovely.  And determined and foolish and brave.

In any case, the responsibility and guilt did _not_ belong to Garak any longer.  He would be following orders, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, he would see an immediate, profound reward for doing so.  There was someone _with him_ , now, to talk him past the brink; no more would he delve into dangerous places alone, trying to impress someone who never cared about the outcome.  Bashir was there, he was encouraging, and he _cared_.

“Watch for me, Elim,” Bashir directed, until Garak was focused on the mirror again.  “Good, stay just like that for me.”

Garak thought he might do anything, if was accompanied with that sweet little ‘for me,’ leaving Bashir’s lips with an intoxicating hitch of hesitation, becoming more and more confident as he repeated the sentiment, as if Garak had just pierced the main line of a well, and the flow became ever more steady and sustaining.

Bashir worked inside Garak’s slit with his fingers while he went on sucking, and Garak suffered the faint, fleeting impression that his body was being _worshipped_ , Bashir repeatedly anointing himself in his fluids.

At that point, it would be rude for him _not_ to ejaculate; Bashir brought him to the edge with such care and attentiveness, nibbling precisely when Garak wanted to request pain, licking his seminal ducts soothingly when he was through.  He hummed around Garak’s length as he took in his seed, finding the taste not _quite_ as nice as the cloacal fluid, but fine nonetheless.  Swallowing it down was no hardship whatsoever, and Garak looked down in _amazement_ at the sheer power contained in that little gesture.  Of course, he had followed his instructions and watched himself climaxing in the mirror, eyes crinkling and lips fighting to contain his gasps of breath, before he stared down at his partner again.

Eagerly, he helped Bashir to his feet, stroking down the sides of his arms with a grateful and firm grip, while Bashir just grinned at him and wiped his chin off on his uniform sleeve, how delightful.  He panted and took Garak into an embrace - he _had_ rather wanted to kiss him, but not if he was being truthful about that being _offensive_ \- playing with Garak’s hair between his fingers, setting his head down over his clothed shoulder.

“You believe me, now, don’t you?” he felt compelled to ask.

“Your methods leave little room for doubt, dear.”

Bashir was happy with that, and determined to show what he had learned.

“And I’m not rushing off, either, if you still need some, uh… some time to process, I’d imagine,” he tried to sound helpful, but Garak caught him somewhere near ‘lovesick’ and he struggled to deflate from that point.

It was Bashir’s day off, having taken an exceptionally busy overnight shift which he’d only recently been able to leave, and it took very little to talk Garak into closing his doors for the day.

“I’m going home to get some _actual sleep_ ,” he teased, “and if you care to join me - to _sleep_ \- you’re welcome to.”

As expected, Garak accepted the offer, and Bashir helped dress him before they left the room together, with Bashir taking Garak’s arm to link it over his own.  Garak had initiated the gesture but withdrawn, unsure if it was welcome.

“No, it’s alright if you want to,” Bashir affirmed.  “I didn’t expect you’d _like_ to be so obvious, but _I_ like it, personally.”

Garak’s private image was based heavily on his public perception, and he wanted it to be _obvious_ that Bashir was protecting him.

“I suppose it’s just… nice to feel desirable, and to inspire envy.”

“I don’t expect anyone who sees is envious of either of _us_ ,” Bashir joked, in reply.  

“Perhaps not literally,” Garak countered, “but symbolically.  One might _see us_ and then construct the rest of the image.  And, naturally, they will see exactly what they want for themselves, even if it is nothing like what you and I _have_.  I would suggest, in fact, that it keeps our exact dynamic safely hidden within a massive web of conflicting and very tame, romanticized notions.  Does that sound familiar to you?”

“God, Elim,” Bashir blinked, a few words behind, mind still pleasantly hazy from the experience they had shared only minutes prior, “I told you I need some _sleep_.”

But this did nothing to stop Bashir from entwining Garak in his arm as they walked from the shop, possessively holding him at the hip, pulling their bodies into unquestionably close contact.  Let them see, let them imagine, but Doctor Bashir was going to _bed_.

*****

 _Dr Julian Bashir  
_ _Personal Log  
_ _1445 hours_  

Elim came home with me after… work, yesterday.  I wanted to go to sleep, and I was originally afraid he’d want to have a conversation or argument or something, with the way he was talking when we left his shop, but he didn’t.  He was perfectly quiet, and only asked if he could lie down beside me and read, promising he wouldn’t disturb me at all.  

I had pleasant dreams, and found he was in the same position when I turned over again, hours later.  Although I soon learned he _had_ moved from that place, he had been incredibly careful not to wake me, which I appreciated.  I told him this, exactly, and he smiled in such a way I’ve never seen… I think it was… it must’ve been _genuine_.

I regretted that it reminded me of something Tain said to me, when I first went to meet him - wisely, I did not inform Elim of the similarity or the truth in those words, but I’ve recently dug them up from my archive, since Elim has now gone home for the day.

 _“I never had to order Garak to do anything,”_ Tain had said to me. _“That's what made him special.”_

I don’t know how this will change our, uh, dynamic, if at all.  I know I haven’t really been giving firm commands, not without underlying teasing or flirtation or whatever it is Elim has always seen as attractive in me.  But it’s true.  He is the most _amazing_ volunteer, and I don’t think he does it so I’ll _owe_ him anything - but just in case, I intend to _let him_ offer, and then push just a little further each time - I think he just does it because he likes the attention and the positive reinforcement… he must be starved for it, the more I think about it.  

So, I am going to try to make more opportunities for him to please me.  Like last night, where he promised to be quiet, as long as it meant he could stay with me.  And when he did get up and move while I slept, it was only to put together a meal for me, and to lay out some of my clothes - he knows, even though I cannot remember ever telling him, the precise order I arrange them in, and which I plan to wear next… And then he wanted to shower with me and ensure I was clean and comfortable.  I’m… confused, but in a pleasant sort of way, for now.

It’s difficult to define, but of course I could barely define our roles correctly when he made the suggestion, I was so caught-off-guard, but it’s almost as if we both fill both spaces, to some degree.  If he wants to be cared for, if that’s _scandalous_ for him, I provide it, and I _command_ it, but if he wants to make me happy - and he does, that much is clear to me - he volunteers himself to care for _me_ .  So, as I said, a bit confusing.  But very, _very_ nice - more affectionate than I would’ve expected from him, and more comfortable than I’ve felt in… several relationships, however brief.  

I am thankful that I did not deter him, last time.  Of course he’s more resilient than I give him credit for, and I’m excited to see what he can do.


	10. 20:05

Nearly two weeks passed before their schedules coincided long enough for more than the obligatory lunch period.  Garak made use of this time in decorating his cabin, adding homey little details and luxuriating in the mere fact that he was doing something traditional, because he _could_.  What he was doing now, essentially, was _nesting_.  He was filling solemn, empty places with cushions, accenting the viewports with sheer curtains, and altogether doing everything he could to make it feel warmer and fuller, and more private, without being gaudy or crowded.  And he fully intended to take every opportunity to share the news with a fellow Cardassian, anyone at all, that happened to visit the station, to the point he would go out of his way to meet up with them and speak at length in Bashir’s favor.

Bashir’s eyes widened when the door first opened to Garak’s home, and, knowing he had made the mistake in the past of _not_ acknowledging when Garak put effort into an appearance, he made sure to put some words together for the occasion.

“I really like what you’ve done to the place…” he said slowly, and the only way he could think of to escape being _boring_ was to tease, “who would’ve guessed you had such respectable taste?”

Garak did not take this bait, as he was clearly trying to orchestrate a different discussion altogether.

“Yes, nesting instincts can be enjoyable, if not inconvenient at times.”

“Ah,” said Bashir quietly, not wanting to address that further just yet.  

He reminded himself he was probably not understanding the gesture correctly; surely Garak did not want them to move in together, so suddenly.  It was only a trained response, like half the other things the man did… Bashir dropped it and proceeded past it without any obvious second thought.

“What would you like us to do tonight, darling?” he asked, trying too hard to sound suave.

They had planned dinner already - also privately, in Garak’s quarters, catered - but the rest of the night was open-ended.  

While Garak considered the offer, Bashir went to sit on one of the new cushions, wedged between the existing sofa and the viewport ledge.  He found it more comfortable and well-padded than he expected, and he asked, quietly and vaguely, if they could have their dinner together, here, instead of at the table.  Garak beamed at this, somehow managing to look more self-satisfied than usual, and said, “yes, Julian.”

He brought a covered tray over to the sitting area, kneeling _down_ slightly on the sofa and reaching _up_ slightly to Bashir on the cushion.  Sitting directly beside him would have been simpler, but not as demonstrative of his affection.  Uncovering the tray, he tore a savory Cardassian pastry down the middle, and offered the first half up directly to Bashir’s lips.  As the courses went on, he became more comfortable with the practice, especially when Garak fed him little individually sliced bits of native fruit: spirals of the rind, cooked and dried until they were firm and chewy, and delicately spiced.  He chewed them thoughtfully, and smiled at Garak with his mouth still closed, enjoying the novelty of it all.  And then, promptly and consciously, reminding himself this was _not_ a novelty, but a lifestyle Garak had a strong desire to conform to.  He had to try a bit harder, then, himself.

“Elim,” he began, inviting Garak to sit with him on the little cushion, but understanding why he declined, “thank you _very much_ for serving me.”

“Oh,” said Garak, plainly, “it’s merely a side effect of my urges, dear.”

“You don’t need to diminish the things you enjoy, Elim.”

Garak remained quiet for a moment.

“I had to do _something_ to express my gratitude for what you gave to me last time.”

“You’re still hung up on that?” Bashir asked, consciously not addressing that Garak did not _owe_ him anything.

Again, Garak stayed quiet for some time longer than usual.  As he recalled the memory, he felt a slight flush in his chula, covered by a shirt and a fastened vest.  They had done something _exciting_ and _adventurous_!  Garak did not admit to these sentiments verbally, however; these were _Julian Words_.  But Bashir watched him, and soaked up his silence, and carried on as if the words had already been shouted.

“I enjoyed it too,” he said.  “And I _know_ I’ve asked you - so I don’t know why I’m surprised - but do Cardassians _really_ not have an equivalent?" 

“Not directly,” Garak admitted.  “What you did, essentially, was offer your mouth - the originating source of your power, if you were a Cardassian - to be _claimed_ by me, primally…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I--”

“There wasn’t any harm done; I understood the point you were making quite clearly.  But, if the intention is my submission, it might be more appropriate for us to practice the opposite.  And if you were also Cardassian, it would be _very_ different.”

“Would it?” Bashir was satisfied with Garak’s insistence; take what was offered, and push just the tiniest bit further, “Show me.”

“I would offer my mouth to you to show my dedication, over a more sustain--”

“ _Show_ me, Elim.”

Garak accepted, privately finishing what little mental preparation remained to cement himself in his subordinate role.  Already he had fed his superior, and made a welcoming home for him…

He knelt before the cushion and reached to tug at the base of Bashir’s shirt, but his hand was promptly caught.

“You will undress yourself before me, _every time_ ,” Bashir instructed.  

Nodding quietly, Garak obliged, shedding his clothes and stacking them neatly on the sofa before returning to provide the same service to his partner, _his Dominant_.

“Good,” Bashir said, in conclusion.

Now, when Garak reached up, it was to touch Bashir’s bare chest, drawing his hand upward through the lines of hair with careful fascination.  Taking hold of Bashir’s shoulder, Garak hauled himself up to sit in Bashir’s lap, ducking his head down to one side of Bashir’s neck.  From here, he was at a nice angle to nip at Bashir’s jaw, which he did gently; human skin was so _fragile_.

Each bite he soothed by sucking down on, until this eventually transformed into more humanized kisses: soft, slow, and affectionate.

Bashir held onto Garak’s hips and adjusted him, so they could both sit more comfortably; he wanted to ensure this would take awhile.  Garak was perfectly content to agree, and let Bashir steer and turn him until Garak was straddling him, one leg folded up to each side.  Then, Bashir’s hands crept up Garak’s back and held him firmly in place, while he carried on with his service, kissing upward - hesitantly at first - to meet Bashir’s lips.  He had not initiated this gesture before, but knew enough to copy Bashir’s method, swiping with his tongue and stirring up wet little noises from between their sealed lips.  It was lovely.

“Y-your…” Garak was afraid to speak at first, but he needed to know, “ your equivalent to a _chufa_ , Julian?”

“Shh, here,” Bashir soothed, pointing to suggest his temple.

Garak stretched to raise himself to this place, granting it the same reverential kisses.  As he moved down Bashir’s face to his neck - where his ridges would be - he folded the skin between his teeth, and sucked on it gently.  He pulled away again, this time wanting to ask about the _chula_ equivalency, but Bashir could guess as much, and brushed over one nipple with his fingers.  Garak gave it a curious look, and did not speak while he figured out just what to do with it…

His first instinct was to bite, and Bashir winced but allowed it, until Garak repeated the gesture with only his lips, his teeth hidden away safely behind them.  Swirling his tongue in circles brought Bashir enough sensation to give a short, pleasured sigh, so Garak drew back and asked if he could do the same to the other.  When he pulled back, he noticed the little nub stood more prominently, somewhat like his ridges did when _he_ was aroused.  Delighted, he went to suck on the other while playing with the first between his thumb and two fingers, becoming more confident with each passing moment.

He trailed down further, remaining quiet, sacrificing his mouth for Bashir’s pleasure.  This offering was more submissive, even, than simply not speaking; he was exchanging that ability, that _requirement_ of his society, for intimate service.

The patch of hair that began near Bashir’s waist tickled the tip of Garak’s nasal ridge as he searched through it.  He had not asked about the _chuva_ ’s substitution, and Bashir touched his palm with the intention of guiding him, but he could not decide if his navel or his testicles were a more appropriate match for the Cardassians’ central structure of _sexuality._ He did not particularly want to push Garak off of him - Garak was already hunched so uncomfortably low in his lap - so he settled on showing his navel, which Garak rubbed with that same insatiable curiosity, and then pinched at.

It made Bashir giggle; the touch was so rare and genuine.  He was relieved he had not gestured any lower, and encouraged Garak to return his attention to his nipples, which he sucked on with unrestrained delight.

By then, Garak’s point was made, and Bashir tried to exchange the gentle, oral submission for praise from his hands.  He stroked down from Garak’s hair, carefully separating it and drawing it together again between his fingers, before drifting down his spinal ridge, squeezing when he met patches of pliant scaling.

“Mmm,” said Garak, pulling his mouth away from Bashir’s chest at last, “would you like me to try?”

He did not move his hands, nor his mouth, but merely shifted his hips to press more firmly against Bashir’s penis, which was settled as comfortably as possible between their bodies, for this stage of their encounter. 

Bashir was tempted, caught between the immediacy of Garak’s offer, the slow, exploratory affection he was already enjoying, and the boundaries he was supposed to maintain both as caretaker and superior.  Their current activity existed, he hoped, somewhere in the middle, but he was not confident.

“Tell me what you had in mind for _afterward_ , and then I’ll decide…”

As he said this, he teased his shaft, purposely letting the back of his hand rub against Garak’s belly as he stroked himself.

Garak was caught in a difficult place, also.  While he genuinely _did_ want the experience of bringing Bashir to completion inside his mouth, he had hoped it would make Bashir accepting of his more ambitious ideas.  Not so much as a trade or a favor, but as the next step in the building of their mutual trust.  

“I have not requested pain in _quite_ some time,” he began, and rather than scold him, Bashir kept stroking himself, to Garak’s distraction, “I was wondering if you would be interested in trying the whip with me, tonight.”

Abruptly, Bashir stopped and held his hand still, prompting Garak to meet him at eye level.

“Not tonight,” he said.  

His internal dialogue was closer to ‘absolutely not, what’s wrong with you?’ but he knew Garak was easily discouraged and much too hard on himself when his ideas were turned down.  Sure, Garak could give something up, but Bashir had never seen him anything less than _miserable_ about the process, even when it involved removing his life-threatening wire.

“I would need to practice, Elim,” Bashir explained, keeping his voice soft and inoffensive, “I’ve never whipped anyone before, and that just wouldn’t be responsible of me.  I could do you _serious_ harm.”

There was an unspoken understanding, about how Garak liked to have his system shocked back into action, following a lull, and this, too, extended to the past use of his implant.  Bashir did not need to address it directly, but he was not going to compromise his contributions over it, either.  He returned his arms to Garak’s body, holding him lovingly at each shoulder, and gradually bringing them both to a reluctant but necessary agreement.

Garak wanted to say ‘I love you,’ but it would have been followed quickly and compulsively by an ‘I do not deserve you,’ so he wisely remained silent, nuzzling against Bashir’s neck instead.

“But if, tonight, you’d like to _practice_ …” Bashir suggested, and Garak nodded his concession before the thought was even finished, “then we can try something lighter, and see how we manage…”

*****

 _E Garak_ _  
_ _Personal Log  
_ _2005 hours_

I must admit, I was not expecting Quark to be the first to know, precisely, of my arrangement with Julian.  I am still so unsure of it myself, of what to call it without making him uncomfortable - this is after I argued with myself to begin arranging _our home_ , but after claiming the man’s _mouth_ there was little room for postponing this gesture, in my mind. 

Anyway, perhaps Quark was the most likely to understand it.  He cast me almost as _property_ , based only on my vague description, and that suits me perfectly well; I am more accepting of that description than of any other cultural translations I have come in contact with, and therefore avoided discussing with the other species in question.  Quark, however, expressed that precious property would be treated with the utmost care and attention, and would have no _reason_ to dispute that with its owner.  So it seems I _should_ stop arguing and pushing - Julian is doing only what is in my best interest, I’ve never doubted this - and go back to being quiet.  I must admit I enjoyed that component, although it was difficult for me to do without the use of a gag in my mouth.  We will see how I can progress.

Julian and I dressed in a hurry and went to Quark’s to seek the use of a holosuite, wherein he planned to practice whipping me.  Of course, he tried to be discreet about his intended program, and ended up with just a blank one to design himself, but Quark hears too much gossip not to have been made suspicious.  The way he held my arm did not help, and I am sure both of us were looking just _slightly_ disheveled, despite the tameness of the activity we were previously engaged in.  Enough to encourage talk. I find I do not mind it, anymore, because no one’s impressions are quite right.

Except, apparently, Quark’s; he led us to an empty and secluded suite _right away_.


	11. 25:39

Quark kindly listed off all of Bashir’s ‘appropriate’ programs, which made both men flush with embarrassment.  In the end, rather than subject Garak to his own less desirable fantasies, he insisted on having a blank suite, and control of everything down to the safety systems.

Much earlier in his life, before he had seen any repercussions, Garak would have admitted to finding something viscerally stirring in an interrogation scene.  Bashir’s thoughts were caught along the same line, as he tried to bargain with himself over introducing Garak and a _whip_ into one of his spy programs - he could not think of anything that made him feel _more confident_ than that - but he did not expect Garak would enjoy it.  So, the room they arrived in was empty, and remained that way for several tense minutes, even after Quark had sealed the door and, presumably, gotten bored of the silence and walked away.

Bashir ordered a luxurious bed for the center of the room, with a single light suspended above it - he could not _completely_ shake off the idea of an interrogation, Bond-villain or not - and a seat for himself, offset to one side.

With a sweeping gesture, he directed Garak to the mattress, and took the seat for himself.

“Take your clothes off,” Bashir found comfort in beginning each session with the same order, “and lie on the bed, face down, arms beneath you.”

While Garak was occupied with this task, Bashir ordered a riding crop from the computer.  In his mind, this was the perfect implement to start with: giving a small, precise, and readily controllable impact.  If Garak had _really_ never been whipped before - and Bashir was not sure that early admission had been truthful - they would need to work their way upward, increasing the impact in consecutive sessions.  It was for both of their benefits; Bashir was constantly trying to suppress a horrific thought of Garak, bruised and bleeding, not trusting Bashir to touch him anymore, not even to administer help.  This was a thin and dangerous line, one that would either provide completion - the ultimate goal to strive for, in Garak’s mind - or the end of their association.  Bashir only hoped he could carry it out with his usual exacting standards, not letting them be stained by Garak’s immediate reaction: a cry did not necessarily mean ‘stop,’ and silence could very well replace it.  He needed to trust that Garak would be honest with him, and patient.

Garak settled himself on the bed, overhearing Bashir’s order and bribing himself to feel excited.  This could be nice…

Then, Bashir spoke up again, and Garak squirmed more eagerly, seeking friction from the mattress to stimulate his _cloaca_ into opening.

Bashir was giving his medical override code and instructions, “engage safety systems to the following specification: allow for sensation and bruising, but no bleeding.”

He understood what Garak was doing, and, after sighing and testing the weight of the crop in his hand, landed it over Garak’s backside.  Once, pausing, and then once more.

“Hmph--” Garak exhaled, more surprised than hurt.

Bashir had to pause and think about what to say, knowing he was ineffective if he remained silent - then it would be as if he was administering torture - and looking at the pair of marks as they purpled did not exactly convince him otherwise.  However, if Garak _did_ like pain, and wanted to subject himself to even higher levels of it, maybe this was not punishment, but the opposite.  Maybe this was positive reinforcement, which Bashir _knew_ Garak did well with.  How backward and yet perfectly transparent.  Content that Garak could not possibly see him, he rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, Garak rolled his hips.

“Did I say you could move?” Bashir asked, with his voice firm.  The holosuite worked wonders on his confidence.

“I’m sorry…” Garak trailed off, unsure of what to call him in this setting.  He _knew_ Bashir did not take well to being called ‘Sir,’ but surely his name was too soft for their current arrangement; the choice remained unmade, “I have _tried_ to stop the manipulation but I… need _help_.  I need that pattern to be _broken_.”

The statement was accurate enough.  Garak had been training, practicing, _working_ , to overpower others with his patterns of speech for years, _decades_.  Generally, it was done to ensure his own safety, and - in the case of this personal relationship - his pleasure.  But if he was meant to trust Bashir to take care of this _for_ him, the overreaching obsession would have to be stripped away.  He certainly _had_ tried, in dropping his speech, in following his orders, in making the most selfless offerings he was capable of.  Closure was what he sought, now: a definitive act to show him Bashir valued his pleasure and well-being, and would provide both, at his own discretion.  

It was all very cloudy and complicated to a non-Cardassian mind, and Bashir was left wondering if the crop - since it was not what Garak had asked for - would manage to convey its message as positive or negative reinforcement.  They were about to find out, together.

Bashir connected the tress to Garak’s skin four more times in quick succession, making a straight line across for the sake of study, shaking his head at how unromantic it was.  Practice was required of him in more ways than one, it seemed.

The bruises fell over a patch of scaling and, as such, flushed and swelled more quickly than Bashir anticipated, but, then again, he was not a complete expert on the Cardassian body.  When he leaned in to inspect them, Garak remained still, arms folded tightly under his chest, chin just barely inclining from the mattress so he could better hear Bashir’s conclusions.

“Consider it broken,” Bashir promised, as the act itself was his own rite of passage, as much as it was Garak’s. “Turn over, fold your arms beneath your head.”

Garak did as he was told, rolling over to show his belly.  From this position, Bashir had an easier time of understanding his breathing, and could try to catch the _exact_ point at which his winces became those of genuine protest.  For now, his eyes and lips creased when Bashir struck him, to one side of his _chuva_ , and he hissed in a surprisingly pleasant tone, pushing the air out through his teeth.

Leaning in, Bashir settled his hand over Garak’s chest for a moment, gravitating toward his _chula_ to feel the way it was pulsing.  Normally, it would echo the heartbeat from beneath, and now, it was inconsistent, and fast.  Not dangerous, but exciting, and _excited._ He stroked the end of the crop along the ridge that ran up Garak’s side, stopping at the soft skin under his arm, mirrored on his shoulder.  Between these two lines, his upper arm was unguarded.  He slapped this place, next, and Garak did well to keep his arms folded in place.

Bashir was so _close_ now, hovering over him constantly, even as he took steps around the mattress.  His gaze remained at a precise distance and intensity, and Garak shivered at the thought of Bashir’s _own_ training, for him to end up this way.  They were not really so different, the more he thought about it.  They both needed to be broken: Bashir needed to find his own identity and genuine confidence, and Garak needed to let go of his, invented as it was.  It was not a trade across the board, however, but they could certainly give and take matching pieces from one another, and build something new and functional together.

“I will give you pain and pleasure when you need them, and _deserve_ them,” parsed Bashir.

He drew the tress down to Garak’s chula, pressing in to test its resistance - he knew it swelled and became pliant when Garak was properly stimulated, emotionally - before smacking it, too, marking it with a purple bruise in the concave middle.

This caused Garak to cry out, yelping in a small and broken voice that fought upward through his throat, before surrendering, curling up into a helpless mewl, spiraling down again until it became inaudible.  Bashir did it again, three more times.

The place was made increasingly dark, almost black, and Bashir was sure it would have bled, had the safeties been completely disengaged.  He had varied his strokes and dug into the flesh with the side of the tress, so the pointed end of the rod nicked Garak’s skin.  But Garak’s expression remained unchanged, for the most part, as he pleaded, with his eyes only, for more.

“Are you going to manipulate me any more?” Bashir demanded, but his voice was quiet.

“No, Julian,” Garak said, but there was still a note of expectancy in his voice.  Perhaps not outright manipulation, but a reward for answering the way Bashir wanted.  

There was still progress to be made.

Bashir withdrew and paced in circles around the mattress, remaining focused on his subject throughout.  He passed the crop back and forth between his hands, sometimes pausing to hold it behind his back, before wringing down its length with one hand in a tight circle, drawing a stifled moan from Garak.

“Oh,” said Bashir, as if the nature of Garak’s desire was _just_ becoming clear to him, “you think I’ll let you evert now, don’t you?”

“Mm, nnnhh--” Garak shook his head inside the cradle his hands made, keeping the rest of his body as still as possible.  

Bashir began again at Garak’s _chula_ , and drew a line downward, applying a good deal of pressure to the tip of the crop before coming to a stop, teasingly, directly above the _chuva_.  The fall barely graced the swollen flesh as Bashir sharply pulled it away.  He longed to test it against his own chest, even lightly, inconspicuously, but he knew the mental aspect of their roles was just as important as the physical, if not more so, in Garak’s unique case.  It would be no good for him to be seen as curious, or anything less than in control; he would need to practice privately, later.  Therefore, the crop did not come into sustained contact with any other part of his body, aside from where the grip rested in his palm.  He did not twist his hand over it anymore, either.

“I will tell you if I need you to evert, Elim.  Can you control yourself, or do I need to limit you?” he asked, withholding the whip and testing Garak’s widening slit with his palm, instead.

In the interest of preventing manipulation, Garak was quiet and indecisive, and Bashir nodded once in acceptance.  He called for a _tukka_ from the computer, then shook his head at the fact the word was unknown.  So he specified the measurement and material he wanted, and shoved it firmly into place between Garak’s folds, moving quickly in order to preserve the mood they had built.  It was strenuous and careful work to _truly_ seduce Garak, and that was the _only_ key to unlocking Bashir’s arousal, in response.  While he enjoyed the power, and the _play_ , he was not about to push his advantage over the image of Garak writhing in _pain_ , at his own administration.  He would wait until Garak was panting and moaning and wanting more, and then he would begin to feel it, himself, as the dangerous blend culminated in something mesmeric, where the trance could only be broken through pleasure.  

In any case, it was a lot to think about while he was holding a riding crop and trying to ensure he did not land it irresponsibly, no matter if Garak begged him to.

“Hold still,” he said, “and count for me.  I will check again at twenty, and tell you whether or not I am satisfied with your conduct.”

“T-twenty,” Garak began, intending to count down, as any Cardassian would to reach a reward.  Bashir allowed it, on these grounds alone.

He brought the crop down all across Garak’s body, from the soft, soaking flesh of his inner thigh, revealed only as he squirmed, to the sharply raised pectoral ridge on his chest, framing his chula and swelling with the crescendo of his heartbeat.  Several marks landed along his arms, making the muscles tense, and he brought the final strike down on Garak’s throat, making him _cry_.

“One, _zero_.”

Bashir genuinely was satisfied with Garak’s contact, how he had counted in a loud and clear voice before breaking off into his cries, how he had restricted his movement to only the reflexive muscles he had no control over, bringing about little twitches in his knees and arms and belly, and how consistent his breathing had been.  Steadying the crop behind his back, Bashir reached for the tukka with his other hand, feeling the muscles reverberating all around it, eager to have it either further inside, or pushed out altogether.  

Take the offering _, push further._ Do not play, _dominate._

“Not yet,” he said.  “Five more, Elim.”

The final lashes were drawn out in agonizing slow motion, as Bashir paused between each to remove some component of his clothing.  Garak was trained well to fall into patterns, and first accepted the stroke, then watched Bashir slowly, temptingly roll off his shirt or his trousers or his undergarments, and waited.  By the time the fifth mark fell, Bashir was undressed completely, tossing his clothes to the chair, and continued pacing around Garak, holding the crop high above him while leaning in to soothe his _chuva_.  From here, and somewhat inadvertently, he spread Garak’s fluid when he moved his fingers to inspect the injuries, rendering the medical intention useless, but making the sexual one prominently understood.  He had wanted to be _sure_ the computer did not allow its creations to draw blood, and that only glistening sweat streaked over Garak’s markings, but now they were covered with the evidence of his arousal.  And the evidence, itself, made him stiffen in his sheath.

Carefully, and to obscure Garak’s view of his erection, Bashir bent over the mattress to have a taste, licking along the protruding rim of the _tukka_ where the fluid gathered, musky and thick.  The toy was built cleverly, to remain comfortable even as it withheld eversion, but Bashir could not help but wonder what additional length or width Garak might find tolerable; he wondered what would happen if…

“...I would like to enter you without letting you evert,” he decided, and Garak whimpered at the thought.  “Would that act _harm_ you, Elim, yes or no?”

Even if he further adjusted the suite’s safety features, it would not be completely effective in stopping injuries generated by its occupants.  No, its control extended only to the atmosphere it created, to materials it could bend and soften before blood was drawn or bones were broken.  Bashir would need to exercise this control himself, but there was no one better suited to such precision of movement; he was willing to try.

“No,” said Garak, “it would not harm me.”

It might _hurt_ him, overwhelm him with the sensation of being so _full_ , but he was sure it would not irreparably harm him.  Bashir was always cautious, and gentle, and could not fit entirely inside him, anyway.  

“I _trust you_ not to harm me,” Garak amended his statement, and Bashir nearly blushed as he accepted it.

How hard-won, how worthwhile…

“You did very well for me, I want you to understand that,” he explained, as he found his place on the mattress.  

There needed to be some contrast to his words, however.

He was not gentle at all as he shoved Garak’s legs apart, one hand gripping each knee until the skin was white beneath his fingers.  Garak stretched as low as he could, widening his slit, making the _tukka_ bob, striving to fall out but needing an additional little tug before it could do so.

Bashir gave it this with his teeth, careful not to catch on Garak’s sensitive folds, and keeping his legs held apart as he cleared his entrance.  The _tukka_ was deposited to one side, and Bashir rushed to position himself before Garak could evert unintentionally.   He forced his way inside as far as he could, and took on the role of the _tukka_ with envy and wonder.  From this position, he could feel the swell of Garak’s sheath, forced to remain full for the time being, and he could stroke along that sensitive ridging, knowing any teasing he gave Garak now would be fruitless.  He wondered what a concealed climax would feel like, if one was possible at all, and he had a faint grasp on just _how_ Garak found all this pressure - his controlled _pain_ \- so enjoyable.

The tip of Garak’s penis ebbed over the lip of his sheath, and felt cool and tacky against Bashir’s base as he thrust forward.  He was still unable to envelop himself fully inside the narrow space, made smaller by the bulge of Garak’s sheath, but all that he _could_ touch felt _astounding_ .  The little scales surrounding Garak’s seam spread _just_ wide enough to rub against Bashir’s cock as he moved, teasing him in so many different places, and so many different ways, all at once.

“ _Julian,_ may I…” Garak gasped, giving an inquisitive look and flexing his arms, still tucked away beneath his head.  

Bashir granted permission, reaching to unfold Garak’s arms and guide them to his torso.  From here, Garak trailed down to his waist and held him greedily, pulling him in deeper and resisting each time he had to rock backward again.  

“ _Elim_ ,” he admonished, “I _have_ to move, nn--”

As he prepared to force backward - he was stronger than Garak, after all, but was accustomed to downplaying that fact - Garak moved one hand sharply, and used it to encircle both his own penis, and what remained exposed of Bashir’s, unable to fit inside the _cloaca_.  Holding them together, pressing his decorative ridge into Bashir’s soft, unguarded flesh, Garak began to stroke. Bashir could not suppress a groan, low and deep.

He stopped, then, to catch his breath, and to weigh the potential outcomes of a concealed climax.  It would be painful, he was sure, and he had no intention of being so irresponsible for the sake of his own enjoyment, even if his role allowed some leeway for this exact predicament.  No, what he wanted Garak to focus on feeling today was the crop, nothing could be make more of an impression in his mind, or their progress would be _useless_.  So, Bashir began to withdraw, letting Garak’s seminal glands rub and smear over him as he moved.

His glans passed the ridge on Garak’s sheath, the scales on Garak’s seam, and his cock _throbbed_ as he held still, breaching the _cloaca_ just enough to keep Garak concealed inside. Bashir pressed his palms into Garak’s shoulders and began exploring downward, studying his breathing from the dip on both sides of his chest.  He was perfectly fine, and Bashir felt proud and _powerful_ from what he had done, what he could still do.

“Elim, listen to me.”

A nod, and a clear, ‘yes.’

“I am going to give you five more strikes, and then you can evert for me. Do you want to try with the safeties off, yes or no?”

“To what effect, Julian?” Garak asked, eyes intently focused and voice even, “You wouldn’t make me bleed, would you, my dear?”

Having watched the effects of the crop in this controlled environment, Bashir was sure that - even with the safety subroutine completely inactive - no blood would be drawn from that thick Cardassian skin.  He suspected a few blood vessels might rupture, and the bruises would keep for a few days, but that would be the extent of it.  Blood, he decided, would be the line he would draw and adhere to firmly, regardless of _where_ their encounters occurred; he would always act as the barrier to enforce it, and he would never engage in anything when he could not focus on this requirement.

“No.  I promise, Elim, I will _never_ make you bleed.  Having the safety off would intensify the sensation and the bruising: is that what you want?”

“Please, Julian, _yes_.”

As much as Garak enjoyed being locked in this intimate pose, he wanted to wear marks of Bashir’s ownership even more. So, with a sweet little nod and his teeth clenched, Bashir pulled out the rest of the way.  He took himself in hand and stroked slowly - sustaining his arousal without heightening it - and gathered the crop in his other hand, walking in circles around the bed as he spoke.

“Computer,” he took a deep breath in preparation, “release safety protocols.”

And now, the adventure began.  Adventure, and intense concentration: a blend Bashir _loved_.

Five more hits were administered, with Garak crying and counting down each, before he was allowed completely out of his sheath.  And as Bashir watched him shiver and squirm, he could not deny the fact that _he_ was causing these feelings in his partner: every lustful movement, every sharp cry, every impassioned plea of his name from Garak’s lips.  It was beautiful.

When the count was complete, Bashir threw the crop down to one side of the bed, leaving it to clatter across the unmade grid of the floor.  He fell to the cushion, and sank eagerly into Garak’s slit, as if he had never left it, and never would again.  To avoid agitating the wounds on either Garak’s back or front, Bashir turned him to rest on his side.  He kissed all he could reach of the bruises, and those his lips could not reach he soothed with his hands, warm and soft against Garak’s calloused scales.  In this way, they made love.

They remained in the suite for several hours afterward, breathless and satisfied and feeling so incredibly open to one another.  Not vulnerable, nor exploitative, but simply _open._ Bashir added continuously, _obsessively_ to the program for Garak’s comfort, requesting a background of sauna stones to radiate heat, a series of cushions and blankets for them to nestle into, together, and warm kanar to sip.  And because he never trusted the holosuite to make acceptable medical equipment, he called to have his own tricorder and dermal regenerator transported in from his cabin, as discreetly as possible

Bashir tended to Garak’s broken blood vessels, then ordered a cooling salve for his bruises, and wiped him clean, knowing he got fussy when left a mess for too long.  But most of all, he held Garak gently, kissing the top of his head and telling him how well he had done.

“Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?” Garak asked, hesitant as always of accepting one-sided praise.

“I - _yes_ \- I did.  Very much.”

They had been struck by the depth of their commonality, and how it lent itself to complement.  The relationship between the two was shaky, but, with both parties devoted to steadying it, the possibilities, too, became _open_.  They looked at each other in love and wonder, and did not say another word.

*****

 _Holodeck Usage Receipt  
_ _Compiled at 2539 hours_  

Occupants: (2)

List of items Ordered: (Redacted)

Kanar provided by Quark’s.

 _Payment due at checkout  
_ _0b. - 0st. - 0sl._  

~~~Have one on the house, you both _needed it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank goodness the station runs on a 26 hour day, or I don't know how these two would find the time... 
> 
> also the receipt, if you're confused, is written to signify Bars, Strips, and Slips - as in Latinum. So Quark has accidentally become aware of this... Jadzia is next.


	12. 18:52

_Dr Julian Bashir_  
_Personal Log  
_ _1852 hours_

I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, but I may have sped things up a bit by opening my mouth to _Jadzia_ , of all people.

It wasn’t intentional - she has a way of working this kind of information out - and, for the record, I didn’t say _anything_ about the individual I was referring to.  I _just_ wanted advice, as I often do when I sit down with a raktajino for a long chat with her, but the _moment_ I said ‘relationship’ she had the thing sorted, maybe even better than I do. 

I’d expressed that I was not feeling _confident_ in the relationship I’d most recently entered, and she came back with lines like, ‘Not confident? _You_?’ and, ‘ _Most_ recently, hmm?’ before toning it down and offering genuine advice.  I’d just sat there with my arms crossed and waited - there was little else to do.

The first thing she did, then, when I was listening expectantly, was remind me of some _ridiculous_ accident that occurred very early in our professional association.  She had promised me that she would not hold the fact against me - and I guess she is using it to _help_ me, now, but still, I’d rather have it forgotten about altogether - but some entity began manifesting as our _deepest desires_ , or something like that, and I was followed around for the entire ordeal by a very affectionate and _yes_ , submissive, incarnation of Jadzia.  I had no control over it, and, if prompted, even back _then_ I would not have admitted to that being the thing I wanted most in life.  I’m unsure how the entity uncovered it, in the first place; that aspect of my personality still remains a mystery to me!

“What _I_ think,” Jadzia said, over our dinner, just now, “is you’ve wanted a relationship like this for so long, you just don’t know what to do now that you have it.  And that _could_ be because of your partner not knowing what they want, either.”

And I was quiet and introspective, then, in no mood to interrupt her.

“Julian,” she said, in that special half-laugh she sometimes gives to my name, “I think what _you_ want is something softer, a little more affectionate.  You need to _ask_ for that, and see what happens.  Cardassians are a people of _habit_ and _service_ ,” she continued on so naturally that I just nodded, hardly realizing she was addressing Cardassians in general, even if both of us were specifically thinking of: “Garak would probably appreciate you testing his commitment like that, even if you _do_ have to talk about it _directly_.”

So she just went on happily eating her casserole while I _stared_ at her, dumbfounded.  Really, I should expect this kind of thing from her, by now. She knows me - and apparently Garak! - much too well.

“You two have been through a _lot_ together; doing something plain now might just strengthen your bond in time for the next adventure.”

Now I just need to work out something ‘plain’ to do with the man who wants me to whip him.

*****

Affection was not a strong trait among Cardassians, but Garak had been displaying it in his own way, hoping Bashir would understand and reciprocate.  There was the _nest_ , of course, which grew progressively cozier with each of Bashir’s visits.  He had also taken to referring to Bashir as ‘Julian’ even in mixed company, and to holding his hand across tabletops, forfeiting command of the conversation and of his gestural influence.  Those were significant efforts, and he did not want them to go unrecognized.  Bashir was perfectly competent at recognizing differences - he could see Garak’s pupils dilate by a _millimeter_ \- but the way he reacted to changes had to be calculated very carefully indeed.

The plan for this evening was established several days in advance, and titled.  Bashir enjoyed a certain degree of spontaneity, but not as much as he liked the pattern of a _story_ , whereas Garak found an enforced routine comfortable.  This encounter, then, was discussed under the heading of ‘a quiet night in.’

When Bashir arrived, Garak had followed his preliminary instructions, rearranging cushions on the bed, clearing a place on the desk in the bedroom, and leaving his toy cabinet accessible.  Bashir had been vague about that, and gave faltering promises that there were ‘a few left’ he wanted to try; Garak had wisely chosen not to push the issue one way or the other.

They kissed in the doorway, in the direct sight of the motion sensors.  Bashir held Garak by the waist, turning them both to the side, so their identities would be clear if anyone happened to walk by.  But no one did; Bashir had tested this in perfect, solitary safety.  

Still, Garak found it _exhilarating_ , and paced in Bashir’s perimeter, constantly and in anticipation, as the man moved through his house.  Bashir stopped often to inspect Garak’s work: new vases of flowers here and there, a decorative tea kettle made a permanent fixture on the otherwise disused cooking surface, a pair of complementary-colored robes hanging near the shower cubicle.  It was all very inviting, as he made his way to the chest of toys and sifted idly through it.  

He wore a bag over his shoulder, packed with the things he required to spend the night - garish pajamas, no doubt, thought Garak as he studied the swell of the cylindrical case - and Bashir asked Garak to turn away before he tucked his choice of toy away inside it.  If only his hearing were marginally better, he would have been able to discern the two textures coming in momentary contact with one another, but then again, this specific kind of detail had never appeared in his training.  But this, too, Bashir _safely_ stretched the limit of; Garak knew all of his own possessions, so the introduction of one would not truly shock him, even if it was a surprise.  It might even be _fun_.

Bashir reached for Garak’s hand, over the stupid bag, and held it tightly as they went to the bed, together.  He gave a nod of approval to the vacant bedside table, and removed some items from his bag to arrange upon it.  First was the heating plate, the same as he had brought to their bath many weeks ago, and then, after he had switched it on, a pair of pitch-black stones, round and slightly curved on one side.  Garak recognized these right away as sauna stones - _murett_ , in plural - and Bashir expressed his delight at the face Garak made.

“I’ve been doing some research,” he explained, pressing down on one of the _murett_ with his palm, testing it.  The stones did soften, somewhat, under extreme heat, but Garak was much more interested in the intimate application of Bashir’s _hand_ , at this point.

“So I can see,” Garak replied, nibbling on his lower lip and forcing himself to look away; human skin was torturously delectable enough already.

“I would like nothing better than to worship every bit of your body, tonight,” Bashir said, in a sultry tone Garak immediately copied.

“I wasn’t aware that was a component of our dynamic.”

“Oh, it is now, because I’ve said so.  I want to do it, and I _will_.”

“Ah…” the argument got caught in Garak’s mouth, and he let it fade.

In truth, the concept made him _squirm_ , a little.  Whatever physical characteristics a Human might have found attractive on him - or a Cardassian, for that matter, as their aesthetic tastes were not so vastly different - had faded when he was exiled to Deep Space Nine, and none of them had made a convincing enough resurgence since then.  His eyes remained in the closest contact with their former usefulness, but they were a miniscule piece of the canvas Bashir wanted to paint with _worship_.  He was worried he had nothing to _offer_ , except, perhaps, the unparalleled attention of his eyes, but what if Bashir expected more than that?

“I get the impression you and I are going to be studying one another,” Garak eventually said.

Bashir was still fussing with the settings on the heating pad, but needed to turn and face Garak to give his retort.  A good deal of their relationship had been, in the past, based heavily in learning lessons, so Garak’s fear was well-founded.  Garak was always trying to make Bashir more _realistic_ , less of a romanticized version of himself and everything around him, while Bashir had focused on...

“No, the opposite,” he said, and returned to stroking the _mura_ nearest his hand.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, my dear,” Garak hesitantly sat on the corner of the bed.

“Like an exam.  I want to prove what I’ve learned, and I want you to feel _loved_ , tonight, and--” he had debated the addition of this limitation, but it was too late to take it back, now, “--I will not have you speak freely at _all_ , tonight - you will respond only when I specifically request it.  I am confident you have _other_ ways to show appreciation, when I do something you _like_.”

Garak did not know what to think of this, and felt somewhat relieved he was not expected to voice his confirmation.  Happily, he shrugged out of his vest before reaching over his head to unfasten the undershirt, and then leaning back against the headboard when both were removed.

“I think we’ve reached a point, Elim,” said Bashir, who measured all his relationships in timeframes, and had adapted one for use with a Cardassian, “where we should feel free to be affectionate with one another, where we _trust_ one another for protection, and satisfaction.  You’ve done _so well_ when we go _out_ together - holding onto me or kissing my cheek - and I want you to know I appreciate that, because I _also_ know how you value your privacy, and I wanted to repay the gesture.”

“You do not owe m--”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Bashir said warningly until Garak quieted down.

He moved to sit over Garak’s lap, then, planting his hands firmly on the ridges at each shoulder.

“I’d rather not take time away to correct you,” Bashir continued, “but you are _right_ , anyway.  I don’t owe anything to you.  Think of it this way, instead: _I_ want to touch you all over, and see you respond to me, and I _will_ get what I want from you.  Is that better?”

Garak swallowed and nodded.  Essentially, Bashir _was_ intending to give him positive reinforcement for behaving to an acceptable Human romantic standard when they were in public, but it did help to consider it in a different light.  His enjoyment of being praised did embarrass him, sometimes - a man of his level and repertoire should not _need_ to hear from anyone, not even a superior, to know he had done something _simple_ correctly - but still.  Truth was a multifaceted thing, and if Bashir wanted him to look at proceedings from even a _slightly_ different angle, one that might make him feel more confident, he had learned not to argue.  There were too many variables, and he desperately wanted to _only_ focus on his partner and relationship for some time, able to relax enough for the rest to slip out of his worries.

To prove his point, he carefully leaned in closer, and kissed Bashir softly on the lips, just the way he liked.  Humans took their pleasure seriously, and differently, and Garak wanted to show off what _he_ had learned, too.  This was exactly what Bashir was aiming for, so he pulled his lips into a tight smile, still overlapping Garak’s, and reached to hold his head and stroke his filament-like hair.  It was wiry, smooth, painstakingly starched into place, and Bashir had every intention of making Garak shiver and sweat until it was messy.  

He grinded his hips down into Garak’s, only a couple of times, teasingly, before drawing back from their embrace and speaking.

“I would like you to undress me, when you are finished with yourself,” Bashir said, gesturing at Garak’s trousers, which he had begun unfastening but otherwise abandoned.

While Garak did this, Bashir took the _murett_ off of the heating plate - clutching them carefully against his chest when Garak approached to remove _his_ trousers - and sighing appreciatively at how warm they had become.  Garak paused for a moment, his attention caught at the waistband of the _lace_ undergarment Bashir had chosen to wear this evening.  Even when he did reach forward, Bashir caught his wrist.

“No, these are for you to enjoy, first.”

He returned to his seat in Garak’s lap, giving a single, tempting roll of his hips to rub the lace into Garak’s seam scales.  At the same time, his hands crept up Garak’s back, until the _murett_ met his shoulder-blades.  Garak fought hard to resist gasping, already.  He was, of course, rather a tactile learner, a fact Bashir had been aware of long before their relationship took an intimate turn.  Therefore, Bashir could think of nothing more rewarding than a night of pure _sensation_ , inflicted at his leisure, where he could watch as closely and intently as he wanted.  In the same way Garak liked _touch_ , Bashir liked to observe _reaction_ \- the change in color as he poured two chemical samples together, the way a new pattern of flight affected a dart’s sound at impact, how the same individual ingredient could be cut and cooked into a variety of finished textures.  

“Do you like them?  You can tell me, Elim.  It took me _ages_ to find a replicator pattern; I’ll have you make them for me, next time, when it isn’t a _surprise_.”

“Yes, Julian,” he said quietly, genuinely. “I do.”

“Mmm,” Bashir sighed, “so do I.”

He continued to move his hips gradually, while pulling his hands around to touch Garak’s chest, instead.  The _murett_ had almost a softening effect on the scales they came in contact with, and he watched the reflexive motions eagerly as he massaged his way inward from the pectoral ridges, beginning at the soft flesh beneath Garak’s arms.

“Or I might dress _you_ in something like this for me.  What would you think about that, Elim?”

“I… believe white lace is much better suited to your complexion than to mine.”

“Hmm, we’ll have to see about that.  Now, turn over for me.”

Extricating himself, Bashir allowed Garak the space he needed to obey, and returned one of the stones to the heating pad.  The second _mura_ he kept between both hands, and used to massage his way down Garak’s striking spinal ridge.  His was more ornate than most, accented with little teardrop-shaped indentations every few centimeters, and Bashir deeply enjoyed watching these pulse beneath his ministrations.  It served a practical purpose, as well, forming the anchor of the Cardassian exoskeleton, and Bashir found it fitting - fitting and absurd - that Garak’s should have the added, distracting benefit of being rather nice to look at.  And at the same time Bashir did not want to fall for the trick, he also wanted this to be _his_.

Shifting forward, he pulled one hand away from the stone and pressed it against the side of Garak’s neck.  His palm was _hot_ , and Garak whimpered at its application in unadulterated delight. With the target selected - and confirmed by Garak’s reaction - Bashir leaned in close, and he bit down on Garak’s neck.  Not hard enough to _harm_ , but enough to make a lasting mark on the scale, made pliant by his arousal, almost willingly bending beneath the pressure of Bashir’s teeth.  He was genuinely beginning to enjoy this.

From there, his unoccupied hand crept up into Garak’s hair, tugging it gently, while his lips remained in place, marking the same scale over and over again, with Garak humming continuously.  Then, Bashir abandoned the remaining _mura_ , and gave Garak’s hair the attention of both of his hands, smoothing it while pulling the strands ever further out of place.  

“Do you like that, Elim?” he had to ask, because the man’s whimpering did not tilt definitively upward _or_ downward, and instead remained on a single, sustained pitch.  It was difficult to decipher, but that was customary as far as Garak was involved.

“Mmm-- _m_ ore than I was expecting to, Julian,” Garak replied, giving Bashir permission to continue making a mess of him.

So he did.

He reached for his bag, stuffed between the bed and the side-table, and removed the toy he had selected for them to play with.  While the true purpose of it remained a mystery to him, he could make a well-informed guess about how Garak might like to use it, himself, to give _sensation_.

The toy was long and flat, like a sheet of sandpaper, but made of something closer to silicone.  It was flexible and could be rolled into a tube, and while one side was smooth, the other was barbed with a symmetrical pattern of loops and spikes.  None were any taller than Bashir’s fingernail, and the design was intricate in a way he recognized as Cardassian: understated but effective.  For his own reassurances, he ran the textured side over the flesh of his forearm, and found it gave a pleasant tingling sensation, nothing more.  The little hooks became briefly lost in his hair, and he wondered what component of this effect was meant to transfer to scales…

“Elim,” he said, as a warning before introducing the toy. “Will you tell me the name of this one, please?”

As he asked, he dragged it over Garak’s neck, beginning at his nape and ending at the top of his spine; it was not a long journey, but enough for Garak to _feel_ and recognize the implement Bashir selected.

“ _Zeln_ ,” he said, and Bashir was presented with the term phonetically, before the Translator offered him, in Standard, the word ‘Catch.’

“Catch on _what_ , darling?” Bashir dug further, both with his question and with the barbs into Garak’s neck.

Bashir had been so sweet and so calm, Garak worried about shattering their progress by pointing out he was not using the toy properly.  Then again, its proper use might very well ruin the mood, anyway, depending on Bashir’s reaction to it.  Having a partner of reptilian ancestry made things… _different_ , but Garak knew Bashir must have _some_ limit to what new concepts he could comfortably tolerate.  Still, it would be no good for him to lie, not when they had come so far together, not when he had nothing to gain from falsehood.  If he lied at this point, he would not be able to enjoy the toy, nor Bashir’s continued trust and affection.  

With a sigh, he admitted, “It is used to draw from our scenting glands.”

“Oh, of course” Bashir said, without even pausing long enough for Garak to feel embarrassed.  If anything, _Bashir_ felt embarrassed, for failing to make the connection between such a device and the glands possessed by a range of species he worked with, not just Cardassians.  “I see, Elim, thank you.”

He lifted the _zeln_ from its place, where the edges had begun to droop and curl to match the shape of Garak’s neck, and turned it over for another inspection.  His first assumption, regarding where Garak might like to use it, still stood undisputed.  

“And where _are_ your exocrine glands, if I might ask?” posed Bashir. “Or are they right where I’d expect them to be?”

“As in,” Garak replied, holding his head up so his voice was not muffled by the cushion, “where _yours_ are?  Yes, precisely.”

The commonality was _not_ precise, but Bashir refrained from expounding on this.  In the scheme of their intimacy, it was trivial, and he could make enough informed observations on his own, without making Garak feel foolish.  Of _course_ the locations and their purposes would vary, but not so much to make Bashir uncomfortable.  He moved the _zeln_ to one side of Garak’s throat, and brushed it firmly against his jaw, digging the barbs into the grooves on every side of Garak’s aural ridges.  

Then, he planted his mouth in more or less the same place, near the scale he had been teasing earlier, and wet the newly distressed skin before inhaling possessively.

“Personally,” he gave a stirring, deeply-set whisper, and nipped at the base of Garak’s ear between his words, “I find pheromones _fascinating_.”

At this, Garak swallowed down the ragged edge of a shiver.  Bashir just smiled, pleased with himself and excited for what was yet to come.  With some effort, and clutching both of Garak’s shoulders - the _zeln_ held backward against one of them - Bashir rolled them to exchange their positions.  He settled back against the cushions Garak had so painstakingly arranged, and made himself comfortable while Garak watched with his full attention.  Bashir reached out to stroke Garak’s chin, drawing him in a bit closer, not with any application of physical strength, but with the power of temptation alone.  

“The other prominent sets, then,” Bashir continued, “must be _here_ , and _here_ , correct?”

“Correct,” Garak replied readily, as Bashir tapped to indicate the soft flesh of his underarm, and then of his seam.

“Mmm,” said Bashir, and that was all.

Finally, he reached for the waistband of the lacy garment he wore, and Garak gave him more than enough space to roll it off, bending each leg to the side as he stepped out of it, still lying comfortably on his back.  

It could have been an examination now in either sense of the word - a test for Bashir to prove himself, or the mere inspection Garak first suspected - but Garak simply _did not care_.  He stared forward expectantly, but still did not speak without being prompted, and Bashir acknowledged this with a nod, and another caress of his chin, which lingered down the exposed center of his throat.  Bashir felt for his pulse, and the excitement contained therein.  Garak made a start, leaning forward, reaching to cup Bashir’s hand between his own, but then...

“I will tell you how I want you, Elim.   _Wait_.”


	13. 21:30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, all. My gift to you: the longest chapter to date, and some Cardassian erotica/tie-in literature (the grammar is intentionally... odd, but if you're confused I'm happy to help. Wouldn't be a good gift if you were confused!!) 
> 
> Have a good one!!

“One at a time, darling,” Bashir said with a smirk.  

His attention moved to Garak’s arms, and he caressed the soft skin before holding more firmly and pulling Garak in closer, so he was sitting astride Bashir’s chest.  From here, he reached upward with the _zeln_ and teased the line of microscaling which shrouded this particular set of glands.  Reflexively, Garak lifted his arm to accommodate the intrusion and Bashir, enamored with the power he possessed, reached to pull the other arm up, as well.  He held Garak’s wrists together above his head, and shifted backward against the cushion, so they were sitting almost at eye level.

“I want you to kiss me, Elim,” he instructed, draping Garak’s clasped hands over his own shoulders.  “And we’ll see just what those glands of yours are good for.”

Garak nodded and wet his lips with his tongue - his skin was generally drier, stiffer than Bashir seemed to like - and obliged.  He shut his eyes and sighed warmly as he approached, while Bashir went on stimulating the little scales with the catch-toy.  

“M-may I?” Garak asked, gesturing at nothing.  

Already, he was sweating, and his microscales had swelled to meet the silicon hooks.  He wanted to give an explanation without insulting his partner’s intentions, before it was too late.  

“Please,” Bashir said kindly, and he lightened his strokes beneath Garak’s arm.

Gratefully, Garak nodded.

“They have, of course, a long evolutionary history,” Garak explained.  “While we did tend to separate into familial territory in the past, they do more than communicate scent… they regulate temperature, they indicate the start of a shedding cycle…”

Bashir paused for a moment, and asked, with genuine concern, if Garak was worried this would go into their memories as another backward interaction, another scene where _he_ presumed to _own Bashir_ , instead of the other way around.  

“I wouldn’t know,” said Garak.  “I have never had them stimulated for the enjoyment of a partner, before… I have merely used the device to speed my shedding process; it makes me feel quite anxious, being alone.  And some - _not all_ \- of that energy can be exerted sexually, but I hardly use the _zeln_ for that.”

Precisely where the vulnerability began, Bashir could not be certain.  But he did not want to risk following the line of questioning to its conclusion, taking the gift of trust he was given and tearing it open too quickly.  

“Thank you, Elim,” he said, and immediately he made his touch more gentle and soothing. “You won’t need to do that alone, any longer.”

Without a word, Garak grinned, and gave about half of an affirmative nod, careful to keep his eyes matched with Bashir’s.

“If you don’t want to use this with me, tonight,” Bashir continued, nudging the _zeln_ , “I will respect that decision.”

“I would like to try,” Garak said quietly.

“Alright.  Good.  And if you need me to stop, you have permission to tell me, Elim.  Tell me _immediately_.”

He nodded again and scooted backward, enough for Bashir, in turn, to stretch his legs and lower his body down against the mattress again.  Garak watched attentively, eyes becoming increasingly brighter, as Bashir took the _zeln_ and laid it flat over his abdomen, running lengthwise to cover his navel.  He had seen Garak enjoying friction of this nature in the past, and was looking forward to a more intimate, personalized demonstration.

“Sit there,” Bashir said, gesturing at the toy again, “but do _not_ move until I tell you.”

Garak lowered himself over the strip of red silicon, bringing his knees to rest on either side of Bashir’s waist, feeling grateful that Bashir was so thin; it did not hurt him to stretch this short distance.  In fact, it felt _nice_ , just barely _hinting_ at opening his seam, but needing more attention to actually complete the process.  Garak did like teasing, by most definitions, and this was no exception.

Behind his back, he suddenly felt Bashir’s forearms, as the man reached around to hold him and ensure he was stationary.  One hand began to stroke the wide scales near the base of his spinal ridge, while the other broke contact.  Garak could not feel it yet, but Bashir was using this hand to take hold of his penis, rubbing the glans with gentle pressure from his thumb.  If Garak was successful in staying still, he would reap the reward of feeling the slick erection against his oversensitized scales.  Bashir could picture him shivering, already.

Still, Bashir approached this with curiosity in addition to his sense of adventure and delight.  As he went on stroking himself, he applied firmer pressure with his hand against Garak’s back, forcing him to improve his posture.

“Since I do not _have_ a _cloaca_ ,” he said, “I want to hear _everything_ this makes you feel.  Tell me, Elim, so I can learn how to pleasure you.”

The two of them, of course, had already exchanged _pleasure_ many times in the course of their relationship, but the level of mutual trust had improved by now.  It was no longer hesitant of harm, but genuinely interested in pushing boundaries for benefit.  And that did, in general, define the majority of Garak and Bashir’s association.

“The - _mm_ \- the hooks catch the skin… it’s so _soft_ now, when I am aroused, and it… it opens me and… releases my scent.”

“So I assumed.  How does it _feel_?”

“Indescribable,” deflected Garak, and Bashir immediately tutted at him with his tongue.

“Does it feel different from being penetrated, Elim?” he asked, assuming the answer, but settling into simpler questions for Garak’s convenience.

“Yes.”

“Good.  In what way?”

“Well, it rather… entices me with some _absurd,_ primal compulsion.”

“Do Cardassians have a mating cycle?” Bashir asked, then, genuinely unsure of the answer.

“No, no.  I do not mean ‘primal’ as in ‘purely sexual.’  I genuinely cannot define it, Julian, please.”

“Try for me,” Bashir’s voice was firm, as he pushed further.

“It makes me feel… quite hot, and _alive_ , while simultaneously unaware.”

“If you’re calling yourself ‘unaware,’ Elim,” Bashir warned, careful not to sound threatening in his decision to withhold, “I _won’t_ be going any further, tonight.”

“Not - _nnnhh_ \--” Garak huffed, frustrated by the lack of motion, “it’s not as if I’ll be unconscious, my dear, or anything of that nature.  They are meant to… _entice_ , on some level or another, and would be of no benefit if they lulled me to sleep.”

Bashir thought about it some more and returned to teasing his erection - he had paused when Garak began struggling to connect the current situation to sex, out of fear of pressuring him into it.  But then he considered the list of symptoms as side-effects, instead, and came up with a better match.  

“Hot, alive, unaware,” he recited back.  “Does it… does releasing pheromones make you feel like you are _intoxicated_ , Elim?”

“I… I suppose so, yes,” Garak agreed.  “Enjoyably so; not completely impaired.  Uninhibited.”

Granted, most of the time Garak _had_ spent intoxicated had been at dangerous heights, but he could easily see this as a more manageable level on the same scale of sensation.  He wondered if he should pause to get Bashir a drink from the replicator, to equalize them both, somewhat.  But he did not want to leave, even if he was not allowed to begin gyrating, just yet.

Meanwhile, Bashir decided to proceed with a careful eye on the progress of Garak’s demeanor.  This could be exciting, but he could also stop if necessary, with no hard feelings either way.  That piece was very important to his enjoyment, as it was to Garak’s safety.  He could understand why the _zeln_ was only used in solitude, with potential effects like _that_.

Although Garak was certainly able to push _himself_ too far, and had done so before; Bashir noted the current deviation with some pride, and excitement in trying something new together, _safely_.

“Slide forward, Elim,” Bashir said, “and stop at the edge.”

Garak complied eagerly, rolling his hips upward and into the texture, struggling to stop without going backward again.  He gave out a pleasant sigh, and Bashir stroked his spine reassuringly.

“Good, Elim, thank you.  Again: get up, sit down at the back, and slide to the front.”

He intended to time Garak’s first slide backward with meeting his full erection, waiting for him at the other end.  He wanted Garak to feel both sensations at once: cool, malleable silicon and hot, firm muscle. The Cardassian was nothing if not a collection of contradictions.  Little gilded ones, kept in a case for display, which Bashir had learned to gaze upon lovingly.

“ _Now_ ,” Bashir said clearly, as Garak arrived at the front edge, and his thighs trembled on either side of Bashir’s body, “you may slide back.  Tell me what you feel, Elim.”

“...Dizzy,” he replied, and then quietly exclaiming, “oh!” when he came in contact with Bashir’s length against his back.

“Dizzy?  Hmm,” Bashir held himself firmly in hand, warming Garak’s spinal scales with the precursory fluid that had already begun to seep from his cock. “Again.”

Garak volunteered himself flawlessly, executing each movement, forward and back, at Bashir’s command.  His seam spread wider each time, as more and more of the skin of his folds became swollen and caught in the little prickled pattern of the toy.  After only a few more thrusts, his slit itself was presented, and the taller barbs poked their way inside, which Garak vocalized - both in clear terms at Bashir’s command, and in a series of strangled whimpers.

“It is not--” he panted, “-- _enough_.  It does not go in far enough; it _only_ strokes the glands, it-- mm--”

“It must frustrate you,” Bashir said, with half-convincing, half-contrived empathy.  

He imagined it from several perspectives.  First, as Garak’s suggestion of intoxication, where one _knew_ oneself to be inebriated, and was so chatty and lightheaded that they might not be able to remember what drink they intended to order next.  Then, he considered it as it actually was: feeling different from penetration in a way that tantalized any poor, feverish Cardassian who was reduced to applying the _zeln_ for relief, but never getting any.  Neither seemed pleasant in solitude, and his heart, for a moment, ached on behalf of Garak’s past.  Whenever _Bashir_ had wanted intimate company, he did not have an impossible time of finding it.  Difficult, sometimes, and often temporary, but never impossible.  

“Elim,” Bashir had to catch Garak’s attention first - he was sweating and grunting and focused on himself, primarily, and that would not be effective, “Elim, does it make you feel closer to me, or more distant?”

“Closer, emotionally, and further, physically,” recited Garak, with barely any patience.

“Does it make you want to penetrate _me_?” he did wonder what all this thrusting might evoke from Garak, anyway, no matter how loosely tied he claimed it was to a reproductive instinct.

“Not particularly, no.”

Bashir accepted with a single upward tilt of his chin, and when he met Garak’s eyes, he came _so close_ to understanding, so close he could feel the threads of it, but he could not yet tie them together, and it pained him.  How could he provide what his partner needed if he could not understand it, himself?

“Off,” he commanded, and when Garak was able to comply - his seam was torn free of the barbs with a series of wet, sticky little sounds - Bashir took the toy and rolled it up, and brought the edge of it to rest against his own chin.  

Letting it creep upward to his lower lip, and unfurling it again carefully, he inhaled deeply and evenly through his nose.  Garak found himself transfixed.

Sometimes, Bashir became his own student.  He dragged the toy up further, letting the wettened hooks _catch_ the creases of his lips, as he kept them intently folded and pressed together.  With the force of movement, and the grating nature of the _zeln_ , his mouth was eventually forced open.  It was the best approximation he could think of for Garak’s anatomy, and he only hoped his tongue was both vulnerable and desperately sensitized enough to find relief when the surface finally made contact, digging into his _gustatory cells_ and assaulting them.  

Garak’s taste was overwhelming, and while Bashir longed to lap it up more eagerly, the minefield of barbs prevented him from doing so.  He let them rake over his tongue to give him what he wanted, but Garak was precisely right: it would not give him _enough_.  It _could not_ , by its own cruel design.  Some of Garak’s fluid would forever be trapped on the base layer of the toy, inaccessible for enjoyment, and only readily removed later, when Bashir would insist on keeping it aside to sanitize.  Wasted, utterly.

He understood.  

And Garak, in turn, had never felt so desirable as he did now, watching Bashir become _desperate_ for what only he could provide.  Even if it was something so trivial and natural as the excretion from his _cloaca_.  Humans were _bizarre_ , but he loved _his_ human dearly.

“We don’t need this, Elim,” Bashir decided, folding up the _zeln_ and setting it on the bedside table.

“I _quite_ agree.”

“Shh.”

‘Sorry,’ mouthed Garak, and Bashir allowed it only because it was the polite, Cardassian conclusion for him to reach.

“Go on,” Bashir encouraged, moving both of his hands to guide Garak’s hips, “open up for me, darling.”

Garak was thankful he had not been required to articulate his thoughts, this time.  He would not have done that successfully.  His lips could hardly form the edges of ‘ _Julian_ ’ at this rate, as he began rolling his hips again, without the toy to obstruct him from Bashir’s skin.  Of course, this felt hot and smooth and firmly etched with muscle, altogether different from the catch-toy.  It allowed his slit to part _and_ find satisfaction in the touch, and he debated with himself whether to rush or to savor the experience before he needed to evert.

Bashir watched him and guided him happily, helping him to slide his hips, relaxing as he felt Garak’s seam stretching over his abs, and then Garak’s fluid as it began to pool in his navel.  Slipping his fingers around to touch Garak’s seam-scales, he mimicked the purpose of the toy, but instead of offering tiny, untraceable, _frustrating_ resistance, he slid his fingertip inside and swirled it around until he reached the edge of Garak’s sheath.  This, too, was swollen and tacky, and Bashir luxuriated in the knowledge he had caused the reaction himself, by being attentive to his partner’s needs and desires.

“I want to stroke you out, Elim.  May I?” he asked, having no desire to be offensive even in his desperation.

“Yes.  Please.”

Bashir did so, as Garak had suggested many encounters ago, teasing the delicate ridge at the base of Garak’s sheath in order to stimulate his penis, to stiffen it until it would no longer fit inside, forcing him to evert under the most pleasant sensation he could think to provide.  As he rubbed tenderly with his fingernail, he shifted his body backward again, bracing himself by sitting against the pile of cushions.  By necessity, Garak followed, and stretched his legs, sighing when he had made himself comfortable.  No sooner than he had achieved this, he began to evert.  Bashir watched him curiously, but affectionately, and began to toy with the tip of Garak’s penis as soon as it was available to him, gently pulling it forward from the safety of its inner sheath.  

He did not want to stop Garak from enjoying the sensation of thrusting, not when the circumstances of the evening made it feel _intoxicating_ , freeing without demanding control.  So he kissed and nibbled gently from Garak’s aural ridge and down his neck, stopping to appreciate the production from the glands at his jawline, before he voiced his decision.

“Settle yourself over me, Elim.  I’ll help you.”

Bashir folded his legs, at this point, and took his own penis in hand while Garak rearranged positions.  When he stretched and began to lower himself, Bashir helped as promised, guiding his length inside and making both of them shiver, in unison, as their most sensitive places came in sudden contact.

“Now…” Bashir stalled as he often did, “thrust for me.”

Following this command was almost too easy.  Garak eagerly moved his hips again, angling himself to various degrees, trying to find the deepest point of penetration.  He found it most enjoyable when Bashir inferred this from him, and took hold of his waist again, pulling him down with force he could never hope to create on his own.  This was the only motion Bashir had to provide; otherwise, he was free to sit still and devote all of his attention to Garak’s swollen ridges, sucking them into his mouth and gliding down them with his tongue.  

The scent of him was _delicious_ , strong and faintly smokey, and Bashir inhaled it greedily, tipping Garak’s chin forward by pulling back on his hair.  This, too, did not give him _enough_.  So, instead, he held onto Garak from beneath his arms, pulling him close and feeling him sweat from the sustained exertion, sloppily kissing his chest while Garak continued driving himself forward.

Bashir moaned and pulled away, and disguised wiping his mouth as kissing Garak’s throat, over the center protrusion.  

“Do you feel _good_ , darling?” he asked.

Garak shuddered, and some stiff locks of hair fell waywardly into his line of vision, untucking themselves from over his ear, equally wet with his own sweat and Bashir’s saliva.  His eyes were just slightly hazy, as he fought to fix them with Bashir’s: calm, lidded, and heavily obscured by lashes as they were.

“Y--” he worked toward ‘yes,’ and failed, and worried Bashir would not tolerate this.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Bashir assured, to his relief, “You don’t need to speak.  Just _show me_.”

In his previous relationships, a verbal expression of love was done as a token, generally in company, when he needed the reassurance for himself.  He preferred a physical demonstration, every time.  He preferred gestures and sideways glances and whispered not-quite-words.  And if Garak would rather not speak when he submitted, that only strengthened their compatibility and connection.  

“Nnnhh--” mumbled Garak, and Bashir smiled at him as he went on thrusting.

“I’ll speak for us, until I can’t manage any more.  Would you like that?” Bashir offered this because he could see the appeal in being forced to remain quiet, being so pleasantly overwhelmed that speech was no longer a priority.  He wanted to go there, too, with Garak alongside him.

Garak’s nod was a component of his latest rock forward, but was enthusiastic nonetheless.

And so, Bashir spoke at length about all the ways he found Garak attractive - from physical beauty, the unique ways they had found to make their bodies work together, to Garak’s wit and devotion, and all the times he had genuinely made Bashir feel like a better man.  He had done this, too, in innumerable ways, sometimes by lecture, and sometimes by example.  It did not matter, now.   

Garak shuddered and paused at the lowest point of his pattern, at which Bashir was enveloped almost completely inside his _cloaca_.  His _purse…_ Garak found himself wanting to make a literary recommendation, of all things, and was only snapped from the thought when he felt the unmistakable twitch of Bashir’s cock as he began to climax.

Soon, his walls were coated with Bashir’s seed, his sheath was filled to the brim with it, but he did not stop moving yet.  Bashir blinked at him, and fought for breath through his mouth, and cried out “ _Elim!_ ” as he came.  He registered that he should show better control, when his claim was finished, and he allowed Garak to keep thrusting over him even though he had no need for the motion, himself.  Carefully, he took Garak in hand and stroked him, until both of them had found their satisfaction.  

Because Garak did not like Bashir to cuddle up _too_ closely, afterward, Bashir stood as soon as his legs allowed, and went to the bathroom to gather some cleaning implements.  He paused for a moment to observe himself in the mirror, particularly the way he held his head up, and shook it and laughed to himself with a sense of almost insatiable _power_.  

When he returned to the bedroom, he had already hastily scrubbed Garak’s semen off of his skin, and covered himself in one of the robes Garak had made.  He had to assume the greyish one was his, although he had no solid support as to _why_ ; he brought Garak the more rust-tinted one, and draped it over the foot of the bed so it could be used when Garak was ready.

“May I speak freely?” Garak asked.

Bashir granted permission with a nod and a ‘yes,’ and sat to Garak’s side as he lounged over the pillows, breathing heavily and holding his legs apart for Bashir to inspect.

“There are only a handful of widely praised literary works on Cardassia which feature two male lovers.  Have I told you that?”

“No,” said Bashir, with a smirk, “I wonder why _that_ might be.”

“Do you, genuinely?”

“I…” Bashir collected his thoughts, and dabbed at Garak’s slit with the corner of a warm towel he had prepared, “...suppose it has something to do with it being frowned upon.”

“You are just saying the opposite of the information I have given,” Garak observed.  “But you are correct, in a way.  A family is of no benefit to the State if it cannot produce children.  That is the only reason.  It is something to be explored in one’s young adulthood, and then maturely, dutifully abandoned.  You and I are _dissidents_ , Julian.”

“Hmm,” Bashir said happily.

“So, naturally, I am pleased I can defer to your authority, instead.”

“I love you too, Elim,” Bashir fondly shook his head.

“But I digress--” Garak said, inhaling suddenly when Bashir moved the towel upward and encircled his penis with it, cleaning him before he could retract.  “There is _one_ notable work which I think you might enjoy, my dear.  Tarev’s _Engagement of Equals_ , which tells not of a power-exchange relationship like our own, but merely one of two enamored men, who have found permission to marry because they _both_ have reconnected with a child they inadvertently produced prior to the Occupation - it is a historical tale, my dear, but I will happily supplement the societal details you might find tedious.”

“And what would I enjoy about it, then, Elim?”

“There is a passage which I am reminded of, now, and would like to hear your thoughts on, my dear.  Will you indulge me?”

Bashir laughed lightly to himself, and helped Garak to sit up, just enough so he could be wrapped in the bathrobe, before setting him down again.  They settled close beside one another, with Bashir placing his arm protectively over Garak’s chest; it was not customary for him to hold on any tighter, as it sometimes set Garak off, and that was the last thing either of them wanted to associate with their encounters. Bashir dug through his overnight bag for his padd, and typed in the author and title Garak had supplied.

“I always find reading to be an _essential_ component of a ‘quiet night in,’” Bashir said, with tangible satisfaction.  

Garak held onto Bashir’s hand as it crawled idly up and down his chest, tracing his chula each time it passed, and he relaxed as Bashir read to him.  And even though Garak _said_ it did not tell the story of dominance and submission, Bashir thought it was a clear theme even in the short passage Garak directed him to, but he did not address it dismissively; he felt very proud of what he and Garak were accomplishing together, and if there was something hidden inside that would make things even more comfortable for his partner, Bashir was determined to uncover it.

*****

 _Engagement of Equals_  
_By Elis Tarev_  
_Excerpt retrieved from the Union Library  
_ _Downloaded: 2130 hours_

In the end, the two of them came to nearly a mutual agreement that it would be Saret’s surname they would share, due to the weight it carried.  Saret’s familial line was long employed in the imperial courts, and he himself presided over one thousand cases precisely by the time the two men became engaged to one another.  

Their age was relatively advanced as well by the time they became intimately involved and interested in reuniting with the daughters they had produced separately and by chance each a decade ago.  Prior to the adoptions and sharing of the name, Saret arranged a ceremony of their own private attendance so the joyous news could be broken.

Saret showed his devotion to Marel each hour and each day, between the rising and setting of the sun {whenever dear Marel lent his ear to the declarations, he would receive them.  The private ceremony was conducted in their garden at the sunrise, before Saret had yet spoken a word, and Marel felt curiously about this fact indeed.  Until he was led into the ferns and laid comfortably upon them and Saret removed the nightgarment he wore, and began to speak his dedications at great length, longer than any judiciary speech he had ever been required to give.  These words flowed more freely, as his devotion was known intimately by his partner and for their cause, both, and unmatchable, for either.

Saret tended to the wound Marel received in his brief time as a Glinn {he stroked the gash in his neck and he would lavish kisses over it in due time, when Marel had gathered the conviction at last to open his mouth, he would find himself gasping in surprise and then promptly closing it once again, while Saret provided affection to his own high standard.  The description of his love came to a halt, then, and he felt prepared to move to the next requirement of the ceremony he had devised.

“I am to have and possess you, by way of my home and my name, and all that I am,” Saret spoke the words into the darkness {Marel rolled to lie on his side, having found the leaves cold upon the skin of his stomach.  He did not receive the words directly against his ear, and it pained him as he had lost some of his hearing during course of the Invasion, and he had to turn and watch his lover speak the words a second time, at his request.

“The court has approved of it?” Marel then asked in disbelief.  Such a passionate man he was {Saret admired and used those passions excessively to temper his colder but equally steadfast devotion.

The court had not, at that time, even read the proposition Saret had written on behalf of his family and desire.  The term for doing so would come later that afternoon {but Saret was feeling fanciful and so eager.

“They cannot deny what you are to me, what I am to you,” said Saret.

He sat down beside the man he loved, and at his level, and then atop him, and they engaged there, together, while the sun rose and warmed their backs.  Their compulsion could not be helped in any other way, and Saret would have done it even without the approval of the law, for that was how deeply he felt tied to this man {this man who was too gentle to be soldierly, and too passionate to go even a day without engaging his partner in this primal way.  As always, Marel would stretch to offer his purse to be taken and filled by Saret, who leaned low over his back and held tight to his shoulders and moved inside him so urgently until he had found release.  It felt strange to know they would not come to have children in this way, in this arrangement, and that their releases satisfied only the two of them, bridging only their own most basic needs together.  Marel would whine and whimper and take, and Saret would soothe him and hold him and give all that he asked for, as many times, indeed, as he did ask.

The sun was overhead when they at last broke apart from one another, and Marel worried he would weep joyously under the weight of the devotion he carried inside, knowing he would come to bear Saret’s name and all the fruits of their love together.  In a breaking voice, he thanked Saret for filling him, and in exchange he offered his service for as long as he would live {not to the State directly, but to it through Saret, whom he loved and cherished.


	14. 17:28

_Dr Julian Bashir_  
_Personal Log  
__1728 hours_  

I never thought I would need to read another work of Cardassian literature in my life, but I’ve spent the last two nights doing exactly that, at Elim’s suggestion.  Not even his insistence!  He has spent most of this time settled in bed beside me, and he leaves to attend to things at his shop when I must pick up a shift, but otherwise he has been by my side.  I read the portion he first recommended, and then I read it several times more, to myself, while he asked how I liked it, because he _knows_ I did not need repetition for the sake of comprehension.  

I can only begin to unravel the reasons he has for sharing this particular work with me.  It is _clearly_ about a relationship like ours, or at least like the one he finds shameful and desirable at the same time, even if the author has tried to force ‘Equal’ right into the title.  

What does Elim _want from me_?  What part did he want to hear my opinion on?  The dominant character’s title, his illustrious work, his _stamina_?  Or the submissive partner’s _passion_ , insecurity, self-doubt?

And it was all very romantic, to be able to share this with him properly, instead of arguing over books as we used to do, but every _line_ of this one is a potential minefield, and I’ve no intention of misstepping.  I mean, he and I have a good deal of… I suppose it is ‘trauma,’ yes, behind us, and I cannot afford to make a mistake, but that seems like the only way to make further progress: to discuss these things in the open.

So… I will just ask him, I think.  I’ve a right to that, after all.

*****

They were sitting together, in Bashir’s quarters for a change, on the sofa, their legs entwined, when Bashir thought to ask his question.  Just as a precaution, he kept the glass of kanar to Garak’s lips an extra moment longer, so he would have time to perfect his phrasing.  Already, they had shared dinner this way, and now they were sipping their communal drink and kissing intermittently… and talking.

Garak opened his eyes when he was addressed, and fixed them on Bashir’s as he faltered.

“Elim… why did you recommend that Ode to me?”

Garak did not pause any longer than his swallow of kanar required, before answering enthusiastically.

“I thought you would enjoy casting yourself as a literary hero.   _So many_ readers look up to Saret, or find him attractive in some way, and I wanted you to know you are, without doubt, the best model of him I have ever seen.”

In turn, it was Bashir who struggled to reply.  This was clearly a great sentimental hurdle for Garak to overcome, and he had done so all to make Bashir _feel better_.  He could not recall such a profoundly pure gesture from any other Cardassian, as long as he had been familiar with them.  And Garak wanted to make the admission sooner, but it made him feel understandably vulnerable.  Being in Bashir’s care at the time made all the difference, in terms of safety and confidence, in volunteering to be helpful instead of fearing he was dropping clues only to manipulate.  His heart and mind felt at ease, and he held Bashir’s chin softly and brought him forward for another slow kiss, to fill the silence more effectively.

“I don’t often get to _enjoy_ having my ego stroked,” returned Bashir, when they broke apart.

“I am more than happy to stroke for you, my dear.”

Bashir raised a brow at him, and pouted, and gave off exactly the smug expression he wanted to avoid in the first place.  He did not particularly want to unravel _why_ he felt this way, or what similarities he knew to exist in Garak.  There were too many of them.  Uncomfortably, Bashir swallowed his turn of the drink, and then tried to steady himself for Garak’s benefit if not his own.

“That was the only reason?  _Plain and simple_?” he confirmed.

Garak clicked his tongue in mock irritation, and accepted the glass again before he spoke.  It was nearly empty, now, and when he had finished, Bashir deposited it on the low coffee table, beside the bottle it originated from.

“That was the single most prominent reason.  I also had hoped you might… find some inspiration in the prose, regarding ways you and I might… engage.”

“Unbelievable,” Bashir said, but his tone was fond, and Garak’s suggestion was meritable anyway.  “I will see about finding a garden for you to expose yourself to, Elim.   _Unbelievable._ ”

“If only you meant it.”

Bashir giggled at this, and released his hold around Garak’s shoulders, leaving only their legs folded together as he leaned over to refresh their glass.  When it was filled again, to the brim, he offered Garak the delicate task of drinking without spilling any over the edge.  He found he liked to watch Garak drink, because his lips moved so precisely, testing and sponging some of the liquid up for themselves before parting and tasting properly.  The scene was mesmeric, and only heightened when he kissed Garak again on the lips; they were soaked and stained with kanar, but somehow tasted more pleasant than the drink itself.

“What?” mocked Garak, “Am I ruining your plans for the evening?”

“I hadn’t planned to have you over tonight at _all_ ,” Bashir insisted.  “If you remember, I work in the morning, and I have _two_ surgeries scheduled...”

Garak took the cup and withheld it - and while he liked to hear Bashir’s insistence he physically _could not_ become lastingly intoxicated - he kept it firmly on his side of the table.  He recognized at least some of Bashir’s behavior as posturing, having practiced the exact same variety before his own past was dredged up and left to rot in the open.  And while both of them had been, in a way, altered and repurposed to suit the highest wishes of their parents, and they had both spent years downgrading their strengths, they were _trying_ to find enjoyable interchange, without making the other feel uncomfortable.  It was a lot to balance, and it had been, surprisingly, Garak who first suggested they might turn their past modifications directly toward strengthening their intimacy.  

“I am not convinced you are taking this as seriously as I am,” Garak posed, a bit surprised, and scooting the bottle out of reach as well.

“ _‘This_?’” quipped Bashir, to ensure he was interpreting the statement correctly, “Of course I’m taking _this_ seriously, Elim; I could’ve ‘ _seriously’_ hurt you, otherwise!  I just… have other things to focus on tonight, and I don’t think I could give a scene the attention it _needs_.”

“That is precisely what I mean,” said Garak, flatly.  “This is not a _scene_ to me, Julian; it is not a fantasy.  Sexual encounters are _hardly_ the only setting in which I want us to share our dynamic.”

“You…” Bashir clicked the puzzle pieces together in his mind, “you want to feel subservient to me _all the time_?  Elim, I must be honest: I don’t _believe_ in inferior life forms.  I am not about to make you feel that way on _purpose_.  I want you to be _happy_.”

“Have I seemed _unhappy_ to you?” Garak huffed, frustrated and masking it poorly. “I do not feel inferior to you, Julian; I want to exist in support of you.  Can’t you understand _why_?”

“I do understand,” Bashir replied professionally, careful not to tip Garak further in either direction; clearly, he did not want to share the details, even though they were both aware of them.  “And I think you’re an _incredible_ support, Elim, but you… you need something _consistent_ , or you tend to lose your way.  Even Cardassia…”

His voice tapered off and Garak filled in the rest of the sentiment internally.  The point was correct; Garak’s best work came from trying to help other individuals or causes, no matter how unworthy, and no matter how he tried to disguise his actions as purely self-preserving.  

“Just for _now_ ,” Bashir continued, “I think both of us would benefit if we did utilize scenes - if I set some clear expectations _for you to support_.  You can voice concerns without retaliation, without worrying about letting me down, and I can feel more confident that _you_ feel confident, too.  Do you see?”

Garak took in a long, steady breath, and offered the glass to Bashir again, holding it still while he drank.  Surely he deserved the distraction of strong, foreign alcohol, however temporary his improved neural pathways forced it to be.

“I do,” Garak said, at last.

“I… _thank_ you, Elim.  I want this too, and I’m trying.”

His eyes dropped into the glass and remained there, lost in the blue glow of the kanar beneath the intentionally dimmed cabin lights.  Something was still missing, and Garak would have been a very poor spy - in the past, of course - if he could not deduce it quickly.

“I love you, Julian,” he said softly, “and I have loved every attempt you have made.  I have admired - sometimes envied - your persistence since the moment I met you, and I feel honored - _undeserving_ \- to receive it from you in so many ways.”

Receiving direct, verbal confirmation from Garak was… unsettling, but so, _so_ good.  Bashir blinked and held his mouth open while he processed it, somewhat intentionally slowing himself down out of habit, and letting the effects of the drink linger as best he could on the way from reception to reply.

“I love you, too,” he said, and he blushed at himself, or perhaps at the heat of the alcohol, or of the quarters themselves, or a mix of all three.

Garak snuggled in closer against Bashir’s chest - between his arms as he tightened his hold - and traced with his lips the small portion of Bashir’s neck that was left vulnerable above his uniform collar.  Bashir, meanwhile, bent to kiss the top of Garak’s head over the thickest filament, and considered how tender, how exposed, how _together_ that small bit of prose had made them.  He… almost felt Cardassian, himself, as he considered the nobility of duty, the strength of love as a purpose all on its own, the elusive joy of lifelong devotion, which he never felt he could catch as an officer.  Garak was a clever and achingly romantic man, to fortify their love atop a story; Bashir would indulge until it was all taken to heart, until every typeset page was reality.

“I _would_ find you a garden,” said Bashir, after his long, thoughtful silence.

“That sounds very much like a fantasy to me.”

“It is a reenactment,” Bashir insisted.

“I thought you did not have the time?”

At this point, Bashir was aware of Garak reading him, pulling back and gazing upward and watching him blink.  Reading, but not manipulating, like staring at a page and never turning to the next one.  Bashir did this for him.

“You and I both _know_ I can go about 80 hours without any sleep at all.  I will be perfectly fine for work tomorrow, if we set our limits now,” Bashir said, taking his partner’s hand.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“ _Elim_ ,” but Bashir persevered, because the point now was to be clear and forward.  “I want to give you a chance to support me; I want to understand what that means to you.  I want us to have a scene together, something relaxing and intimate - _fine_ , something like a fantasy -” he amended, when Garak quirked his brow, “and I do not want to focus on your pain tolerance tonight.  I want you to relax, Elim.”

Garak soaked up the words carefully, precisely, stopping when he was full of them.  Tonight, he was going to make no attempt at manipulation.  He was going to follow the outline Bashir gave, and find ways within the boundaries to volunteer his support, knowing he could voice his desires and reservations, equally, in a safe setting.  

“I would like that,” he said.

Bashir smiled.

“Then go into the bedroom and wait for me, darling.”  When Garak had gone, and Bashir knew he would not be overheard, he said proudly to himself, “I _am_ going to find you that garden.”

The fantasy he was spinning was conveniently based on _Engagement of Equals_ , on the scene Garak originally recommended.  He could think of nothing better to bridge their expectations than a scene Garak _saw_ him in, one that must have been among his favorites.  And one that was easily duplicated, and ached for clarification.  

While Garak paced in the bedroom, adjusting the lighting and the humidity from the wall panel, Bashir stood outside and pleaded with the replicator for flowers.

In the end, it listed three available varieties, easily accessible because they were edible in some onboard cultures.  He peeled off leaves from stems, petals from pistils, and made his way into the bedroom.

As Garak had still not settled down on the bed, Bashir unrolled his silky blanket from the base and spread it out to cover the mattress, before sprinkling the plants over it.  Then he returned to Garak and took his hand, and led him tenderly back to the bedside, even though it was only a few steps away.  He gestured along it with a slow sweep of his arm, and helped Garak to sit down and spread himself comfortably.  Bashir did not keep as many pillows, so Garak ended up sitting against the wall itself, which bracketed the bed on two sides, to conserve space in the small cabin-room.  With past partners, Bashir had taken the time to roll it outward, but Garak found it ‘charming’ just the way it was.  What he meant was ‘nest-like,’ but without surrounding him completely, stifling him and trapping him.

“There we are, Elim.  Your garden,” Bashir said.  “Or shall I be calling you ‘Marel’ tonight, darling?”

“No, thank you.  I prefer to keep my name in fantasy; I use false ones too often in… work.  Although I do appreciate the thought.”

With a nod, Bashir accepted, and reached for the hem of Garak’s collar, tugging at it gently.  

“This was your favorite part of the story, wasn’t it?” Bashir confirmed, “The private ceremony?”

Garak considered the question, and then how to answer without being dishonest.  It was a two-step process, listening and replying.

“It must be.  I enjoy all of the most widely-contested segments of the Modern Translation."

“How can that _possibly_ be ‘widely-contested?’”

Garak saw this as the first opportunity to volunteer himself, so he backed away gladly and conceded to Bashir’s guidance.

“It is mostly to do with the substance of Saret’s declarations, as the words themselves are never listed.  But you will not have that problem, Julian, I am sure of that.”

“Good,” Bashir said, in praise of both of them, as he continued to undress Garak and shove his folded clothes aside.  “Now, shall we begin?  Remember, I want you to be able to relax and feel comfortable; you can stop me at any time if that becomes untrue."

“Thank you,” Garak replied, and Bashir took on his role immediately.  “I understand.”

Bashir’s actions provided beautiful contrast for the harshness of his words; he snapped, “ _turn over_ ,” while reaching eagerly to massage Garak’s skin as he exposed his back and rear, supporting himself on his hands and knees as the passage depicted.  The newly-made pressure points in the mattress - where Garak separated the whole of his weight into four sagging corners - forced the petals and leaves to slide downward, so they brushed across Garak’s skin constantly.  His palms were soft and sensitive, while his knees were reinforced by thick scaling, and each type of area found the presence of the plants to be pleasantly distracting, heightening his awareness to Bashir’s advantage, and his own resulting enjoyment.

When Bashir had finished massaging the small amount of fatty tissue that clung around Garak’s hips, he kneaded downward, separating his butocks and squeezing them both firmly, encouraging Garak to widen his stance.  

With one hand in between Garak’s thighs, he traced reverently over his seam scales, feeling them warm and soften, and stand to meet his attention.  The other hand he used to clumsily undress himself, without wanting to break his contact with Garak as he did so.  He teased himself through his underwear - a sensible cotton pair, tonight - before shrugging them off and brushing them aside, to the perimeter of the bed.  Then, gently, he rolled his testicles over his fingers, before gripping his cock and pumping it.

“How many times - ‘indeed’ - did Marel ask to be penetrated, Elim?” he pulled a line from his memory of the text, while aligning his penis with Garak’s seam and rubbing, thrusting between the folds, slicking himself in Garak’s precursory fluid.

“If one counts only his express verbal requests throughout the text, thirty-eight,” Garak replied.  “But the scene you are referring to is intentionally unclear.”

“Good,” Bashir said, smirking to himself.  “More than once, in any case.”

Garak shuddered at the thought of this impending endurance test - Bashir’s against his own.  There could be no loser, he was certain of that.  He would quite happily lie back in surrender, when he could no longer support himself, and concede to Bashir’s victory.

“Quite,” replied Garak, thinking through the _engagement_ stanzas again, in detail.  

Bashir held his length in hand, and as he brought himself closer to breaching the _cloaca_ , his fingertips crept upward to toy with it, pressing it and making Garak whimper and spread in response.  Bashir’s hand remained in place, cupping himself and guiding himself inward, while Garak canted his hips and did all he could to accommodate at this angle.

“You need to evert,” said Bashir, having brushed against Garak’s swollen sheath _immediately_ when entering from beneath him.  “I’ll help you.”

Again, he guided himself to the opening, and rather than allow Garak to keep him out, he worked inside with two fingers, glossing over Garak’s innermost ridge, forcing him to slide outward, where he found himself caught in Bashir’s hand.  Distractedly, Bashir pumped Garak’s length several times before focusing, again, on entering.  This angle was as excruciating as it was enjoyable.  

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Bashir whined, surprised at himself and his reaction.  “Elim, that’s--”

From here, his glans came in close contact with little, internal lines of microscaling, which he had never previously been introduced to; ordinarily, he entered in a different way, and never had sufficient space to stroke them.  He still did not fit entirely within Garak’s purse, and in fact covered even less of it, this time, but it was…

“-- _wonderful_.”

He pulled himself upward, bracing on Garak’s shoulders, letting his chest rest on Garak’s back, and he began to thrust.  Gently at first, as he took the time to leisurely kiss Garak’s neck ridge, but increasing the pressure from each point whenever Garak made a sound - it became a limit they both agreed upon, in clear, verbal detail, and _both_ found it painfully arousing.  

“I would like to be _silent_ again, unless you require me to speak,” Garak proposed, and Bashir outlined the rules from there.

When Garak reacted vocally - with actual words - Bashir would move more swiftly, and when he made unintelligible sounds, Bashir would move with greater force.  Eventually, Garak was reduced to half-silent winces, pulled and pushed through his teeth.

Bashir reacted accordingly, releasing Garak’s shoulders from his hands and Garak’s scales from his teeth, and scooting back so he was kneeling on his own solitary strength.  He expected Garak would want some registration of _pain_ , for being so well behaved, so he squeezed hard on Garak’s hips, and dragged him backward to conclude each roll of his own hips, never allowing his penis to break contact with Garak’s purse, slamming the Carassian body against his own.  They went on this way with determination, and Garak and Bashir _both_ almost stopped keeping track of the time.  

Then Bashir felt the initial wave of his orgasm breaking, that unmistakable tremble deep inside, and he knew he had more rules to establish.  

“Elim?” he breathed, tapping at the side of Garak’s neck for his attention, “Elim, I’m very close, do you want--?”

Garak coughed slightly, and shook his head.

“Tell me, Elim.  I need you to tell me, now.”

“I want to _serve_ ,” Garak emphasized, his voice quiet and reluctant, but the words positively _burned_ inside Bashir’s belly.

Garak stilled himself, and raised higher on his hands and knees, bowing his head forward in submission, breathing loudly but not speaking any more, for now.  This was his second supportive act; giving his body to Bashir, trusting him to use it.  Bashir _wanted_ this, ached for it, and needed to place his limit quickly, in order to accept Garak’s gesture gracefully.

He hooked his hand around to take hold of Garak’s penis, circling it like the restrictive _haylen_ , but remaining still and uncompromising.  Blinking heavily and gritting his teeth, Bashir saw himself through release, filling Garak’s slit with his semen, before letting go of Garak again, ensuring his urge to climax had passed, for now.  

“Thank you, Elim, _god_ …” he panted.

Garak nodded his head, making a needy gesture for _more_.  

For their second _engagement_ , Bashir became more desperate, and shoved Garak down to rest on his elbows - his face buried in one of the two available pillows, triangular and firm - and held Garak’s hips up to try a higher angle.  With a great amount of his self-control, Bashir kept still, and held Garak in place, and spoke.

“ _Ask_ , Elim,” he directed, giving a shiver that Garak easily felt the remnants of.

Garak pushed his chin to rest flat on the pillow, for a brief moment.

“Stain me,” he said in a quiet, plaintive voice.  

A small amount of humiliation _excited_ him, and made him disproportionally determined to obey Bashir’s orders, both physical and vocalized.  

“What was that?” Bashir asked, having heard the words perfectly, and registered them as _fantastic_ , but wanting to push Garak’s limit just a shred further each time.

“Stain me, _please_ ,” Garak added, and the word transferred immediately into Bashir’s very soul.

“I will, Elim, thank you.”

He pulled Garak’s hips up higher, then pressed one hand between his shoulder blades to keep his chest low against the mattress.  Garak dug his forehead forward in such a way that granted him freedom to breathe - chin against his chest - and an obscured vision of Bashir moving between his legs again.

This time, Bashir had an easier time entering, but a harder time controlling himself.  Of course, he ensured his movements did not bring Garak any lasting _harm_ , but it felt so indescribably _delicious_ , being kissed by all of Garak’s delicate little genital ridges, that he could not keep quiet.  Fortunately, it was well within his rights to voice his opinions.

“Nnnhh, _god,_ Elim,” he said, wincing at how trite he was preparing to sound, rather than in actual pain, “ _Tight_.”

When Garak nodded, he rocked the whole of his body, and earned a playful swat for this behavior, over his belly.  It did not hurt at all, as the place was so well insulated by fat tissue and guarded by scales.  But it did surprise Garak, somewhat, and he worked hard to draw in his gasp silently.  Bashir’s fingers followed this breath, crawling up to Garak’s throat as he continued to thrust deeply, wrapping around his throat, only gently.  Bashir had no desire to withhold his intake of air, not now, not ever.  He merely wanted to authenticate a detail…

“How did Marel receive injuries in the war?” he posed.

“An electric fence-post,” Garak said, automatically.

“Really?”

Bashir tightened his grip just _barely_ , letting his nails test the unarmored flesh of Garak’s throat.

“Yes.  In the first volume, he almost escapes a--”

“I believe you, Elim,” Bashir said, and Garak grinned to himself.   

Only his nails were in contact with the soft skin, now - he had pulled up his palm - and he dug them in as Garak, in reply, exhaled like holes had been punctured there.  Their play-wound satisfied Bashir’s intention, so he leaned in low to sate the sting with kisses.

“Ohh,” sighed Garak, infatuated with the contrast of Bashir’s attention, hard on his slit and soft on his throat. 

Bashir barred his other arm around Garak’s middle, holding him tight and still, until he approached his second climax, and denied Garak his first.  In preparation for his third, he sat back, and pulled Garak to sit atop his lap, with both of them rubbing their hips in small thrusts, until they established an alternating rhythm.  Garak was silent, apart from a moan to indicate when Bashir needed to restrict him again, and then they began to prepare for his fourth release…

Garak whimpered, as Bashir’s penis began to stiffen inside him once again.  He wanted _very much_ to look at Bashir for this engagement, and swiveled his head to one side, receiving a soft kiss on his cheek for his effort.  It was _sublime_ , how Bashir managed to do so many things at once, just as Garak required.  He gave unrelenting penetration, gentle reassurance and praise, and, now, as he felt Garak’s purse quivering helplessly, having been utterly spent by exertion, he gave the fantasy a verbal component, too.

“I am so _in love with you_ , Elim,” he said, gasping and kissing Garak’s cheek sloppily a second time, then a third. “And I could go on much longer than Saret did, about how wonderful you are, how much you mean to me, how much we will compromise for each other, and--”

Garak made a little mewling sound, suppressing a _cry_ at how mutual these words would be, if he had the allowance to speak.

Bashir stroked his hair lovingly, and settled back further on his folded legs, allowing Garak to sit comfortably over his cock as they went on, still moving insistently toward release.

“Thank you, for doing this for me,” Bashir said quietly.  “Let me take care of you now, darling; you deserve it, you _need_ it.”

Garak could not deny how his entire body was trembling at this point, in need of either release or _rest_.  Bashir took his penis in hand and withdrew from Garak’s purse, and helped Garak to recline, drawing his legs together for a short reprieve.  While he did this, Bashir crawled up closer to him, and stroked tenderly over his knee-scales, warm and swollen from their prolonged contact with the silk sheets and the rough leaves, fighting to give sensation.  He bent to kiss one, then the other, while Garak looked on in awe and adoration.

“Do you feel relaxed, Elim?” Bashir paused and drew his hands inward, down from Garak’s knees to frame his chuva, parting his legs and kissing this ridge, too.

Garak nodded and then said ‘yes.’

Again, Bashir held tight to Garak’s knees, maintaining enough of a gap between them for himself to sit.  He teased his own length between two fingers, slicking it in what remained of their intermingled fluids, before pausing at the very edge of Garak’s _cloaca_.  After another nod from Garak, and a whimpered, ‘please,’ Bashir continued, and found his way inside.  His urethra was immediately met by one of Garak’s seam scales, intensely swollen from exertion, and Bashir took in a sharp gasp.

“I am to have and possess you,” he recited from memory, but paused before completing the stanza.  

“Please,” Garak interrupted.

This time, Bashir only restricted Garak’s cock until he felt nearly ready to climax, himself, doing his best to line up their finishing times, accustomed to his own being of much longer duration than his partner’s.  Watching Garak’s breathing carefully, and his squinting and the tremors that ran along his shoulders, Bashir established the time accurately, and loosened his grip, beginning to pump Garak in time rather than hold him frustratingly still.  In the end, Garak came forcefully over his belly, with most of the fluid caught by the heightened lip of his chuva, and the rest dribbling down his sides, and smearing over Bashir’s skin when it came in contact.  Bashir, meanwhile, filled Garak’s slit for the final time, and then withdrew with an exultant sigh.  

There was sweat gathered above his brow, glistening on his chest and abdominal muscles, and his hair had become somewhat tousled, but these were the only signals of what he had done.  Garak was a great deal messier, and felt very sore by comparison, and struggled to even keep his wettened hair out of his eyes.  He panted, aiming for the same satisfied tone Bashir had used, and shoved the cushion aside so he could lie flat on the bed for his recovery.

Bashir could not resist giggling to himself, at the scene they had played, and its consequences.  With hardly three hours until he was scheduled to work, he had made a noble attempt at exhausting himself, a well-illustrated if unintentional point about the vagueness of Cardassian literature, and, best of all, had given pain and pleasure to his partner, in the form of denial, humiliation, and release.  They had built a strange dynamic, the two of them, but Bashir found he enjoyed it more and more each day.  So did Garak, who smiled thinly, but soon broke his mouth open to breathe deeply, as his prolonged activity required.

“That was _astonishing_ , Elim.  I don’t have the words…” Bashir trailed off, and looked for an activity to occupy his new, satisfied energy.  

The most obvious would be cleaning up, so he looked down at Garak and gave a gentle nod, his expression changing from one of playfulness to one of genuine concern, which Garak’s heart ached for.

Bashir returned to the bedroom before Garak realized he had even departed - not having heard the sink switch on in the other room - and set his implements out on the side table.  First, he massaged Garak’s sore scales with a warming cream, and swept aside the flowers and leaves so they would not become stuck.  Garak would not tolerate a mess of himself, let alone of his quarters, and Bashir was thankful they had not decided to reenact erotic literature in the _nest_ Garak made.

Garak’s slit remained slack and wide for a long time, and Bashir lovingly coaxed his semen out of it, flushing it with warm water poured back and forth between his hands, over the safety of the original bowl.  Clearing the bowl to the table when they were finished, Bashir took the space beside Garak as his own, and snuggled against the cooler body, holding him loosely, but possessively.  He decided Garak’s belly could do with a gentle massage, and patted and rubbed affectionately with both hands until at last Garak’s discharge was clear, and thick, and entirely his own.  

Garak, meanwhile, took his vulnerability to its logical conclusion, and dozed off, after giving a sleepy but positive appraisal of Bashir’s lesson on limits.  There was nothing else to be done, really, and no way a middle-aged and underworked Cardassian - even a trained intelligence agent - could outlast his young and suitably-modified human partner.  

Bashir relaxed into the curve of his side, and said, “I’m glad,” and lulled himself to sleep by stroking Garak’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take this time to enthusiastically THANK everyone who has shared their thoughts and support with me <3 That makes it so much easier for me to continue, and I am looking forward to, uh, coming up with a satisfying ending, soon. 
> 
> That said, I hope you'll look into my other DS9 and Cardassian-centric works (*cough* particularly Salt in an Open Wound, which I am really struggling through at the moment) and find something else you like <3 
> 
> That's enough of me being shameless.


	15. 04:23

_Inquiry for ‘Ecdysis’ in Literature_  
_Compilation retrieved from the Union Library  
_ _Downloaded: 0423 hours_

  1. “...and hers occurred no more than once per decade, and it dwindled her energy and occupied her time entirely…”
  2. “With a scouring brush cast of wire {and no wider than half the breadth of  one’s spinal ridge, is advisable} one can remove the pocks almost pleasantly.”
  3. “...this time of sloughing made them both irritable, aside from the fact they could endure it side by side, without need for voicing what had happened or how they felt on any day.”
  4. “The emergence of Madis’s ridges made his household grow anxious, for it was yet unknown how they would curve, which of the continents they would hone to signify, and which of the two prominent men had fathered him.  So his household caregiver oversaw the process attentively, and bathed him in heavy salts to encourage the scales to free themselves from the skin, and the ridges to blossom from beneath, visible for the first time.”
  5. “...the final shed of a hundred or so years, was known sometimes to leave nothing in its wake.  Respect was given in advanced age, especially to those who had lost the guard of their ridges and scales, knowing they would not have to suffer a shed again, but also that the feelings they had grown accustomed to would not return in their lifetime.”



*****

Bashir read over the little compilation carefully, having found precisely _nothing_ about Ecdysis, or the complete Cardassian shedding, in the medical library.  What he found were tiny excerpts from works of prose, and even these were more difficult to find and decipher than he would have liked.  Garak was forthcoming about confirming details, but otherwise supported Bashir’s theory that the act itself was a very private thing.

It offered another chance for them to set some important limits.

Foremost, Bashir was adamant that no sexual element should overlap with the administration of medical care, while Garak was stuck in this vulnerable state.  

“I am perfectly happy to be _affectionate_ with you,” Bashir clarified, “once I know you are well and my _job_ is done for the time being.  Otherwise, we will have clear start- and end-points for intimacy, which you can request whenever you like, knowing I can overrule and postpone, or deny you outright, but I hope it would not come to that.”

Slowly, Garak nodded and conceded.  Despite the soreness he now felt constantly beneath his skin, as the new scales tried to shove their way out, he was desperately excited.  

“And you will have the opportunity to provide pain to me that _genuinely_ is beneficial.  Had you thought of that, dear?”

“I had, yes,” Bashir replied; it was the only thing on his mind since Garak first showed signs of shedding.  

Back then, Garak had insisted it had nothing to do with their usage of the _zeln_ \- that had not been prolonged or strenuous enough to produce any effect - but was merely his time.  Bashir’s research, being all fiction-based, even dry and unimaginative Cardassian fiction, was inconclusive, so he was hopeful about taking Garak’s word at face value.  They would find out together, and soon.

“But _no_ pain after your care: salt baths twice a week, scouring afterward, topical methylsalicylate as needed, _vigilant_ , round-the-clock supervision, and then _nothing_ but saunas and fleece blankets for you.”

“You make it sound like a threat,” Garak said, thoroughly enjoying the attention.

Bashir shook his head immediately, and tried to focus on the first objective: a bath.  Garak was anything but intimidating, in the thickly padded coat and scarf he wore for this season, but Bashir was still afraid to touch him without being explicitly welcomed to do so.

“We’re going to start, now,” Bashir explained.  “I’m going to prepare your bath.  Will you need my help to undress?”

Since the shed began, Bashir had taken up near-permanent residence in Garak’s quarters, only returning to his own to refresh his stock of clean clothes, stuffing a week’s worth into a bag and departing like he was late for an appointment.  Of course, he did still leave Garak’s side to attend to other patients at the Infirmary, and several times for evasive shuttle drills, but beyond that, his presence was steady.  Now, Garak found himself reliant on it, in a slightly different way than he had become reliant on his implant, and he agreed to the help without really requiring it.  He cursed the addiction internally, because Bashir’s hands were so warm and cautious.

In the bathroom, Bashir dropped the specialized brick of salt into the tub and turned on the water, as hot as it would go.  The brick soaked until reaching its saturation point, and then began to dissolve, swirling and clouding the water until it was as grey as Garak’s skin.  While this occurred, Bashir unwound the scarf from Garak’s neck, and paid special attention to the hidden buttons that ran down each side of today’s tunic.  He had never been fond of buttons, but he understood why Garak relied on them now, in place of the usual Cardassian closures - hooks and eyes that could easily catch on an inflamed scale beneath the fabric.  More often than usual, he sought verbal confirmation from Garak that he had not been injured unintentionally; Bashir was working hard to control his eagerness, but Garak found all the questions exhausting.

“Fine, thank you,” Garak said.  “I’ve done this before; you needn’t worry so much.”

“But _I_ haven't.  You're my first,” Bashir said timidly, intentionally.

He helped Garak to settle into the tub, turning off the tap once the water reached an acceptable level, gracing the bottom of Garak’s hairline as he sat forward.  To sit against his spinal ridge was much too painful, so he resisted the usual urge to recline.  Instead, he stayed upright, spreading his weight by folding up his legs; the soles of his feet were numb to the effects of a shed, having evolved over centuries for use in the unforgiving Cardassian desert.  

“Aren't you going to join me, dear?” Garak ventured, expecting disappointment and getting it.

“No, I wouldn’t want to crowd you, Elim,” Bashir knelt at the mouth of the tub, and reached to pull Garak’s hair up from the water.

He caught a glimpse of Garak’s shoulders: pale, swollen, and plagued by dark purple sores.  These were nearly circular, drilled into each scale of his neck and shoulder ridges.  Asking permission before touching, Bashir scooped up handfuls of the water, dousing them over either side of Garak’s neck.  The granules of salt caught in the cracks between the scales and, with some whispered instruction, Bashir began to knead and spread them out, mitigating the swelling.  

When Bashir reached the nape of his neck, Garak yelped, but quieted himself shortly after.  Bashir withdrew only as long as Garak was silent, and returned again when he began panting, and trying to speak.

“Will you do that again?” Garak requested. “The sooner my _cura_ is off, the sooner I can sit properly.”

He referred to the wide scale that connected the ridges from each shoulder, and simultaneously marked the start of his spinal ridge.  Concepts of three ran strongly in Cardassian culture, and Bashir was hardly surprised to see them appear in shedding, too.  This particular scale was infamously deceptive, being large and rounded, but much too soft to protect the flesh beneath; it was for this reason that Cardassian armor ran in such a line, protecting the _cura_ directly, curling over it with a wide, reinforced collar.

“I will, Elim.  Hold the walls, please.”

Garak was pleased to receive a command in exchange for his request, and tried not to consider it as anything further than medical advice.  But it was difficult, because his memory was so neatly sorted, and Bashir now occupied a special role that overrode many others.  

As he leaned in to repeat his motion, Bashir found himself having almost the same problem.  Garak was breathing heavily in anticipation, but sounded reasonably relaxed, and it made Bashir grow possessive in his provision of care.  He planted his hands firmly at the lower end of Garak’s _cura_ and kneaded upward, watching the skin darken.

“Elim,” he interrupted his own movement, stopping and pulling back his hands, “I don’t want to make you bleed.”

“You won’t.  Please trust me,” Garak entreatied.  “There is more skin underneath.”

“It’s _dark red_.”

“It is, yes.   _Please_.”

Bashir reasoned with himself, and did some deductions based on what little study he’d had of Cardassian anatomy - most of it courtesy of Garak - and proceeded.  When he pressed upward again, the base of the scale detached, leaving - to his relief - a patch of reddened skin beneath.  Garak _whined_ , but expressed his gratitude shortly afterward.

“ _Ohhh_ , yes, Julian, thank you,” he sighed, and reclined against the tub, pressing his back to it gingerly at first, but relaxing more and more as the pain subsided.

Since the beginning of this stage of their relationship, Bashir had been on the brink of understanding Garak’s fascination with pain, and the way he claimed to require it.  He could see the connection to his implant, and how it translated into pleasure from there, artificially, but this was real, and reasonable, and he _grasped it_.  There was no need for pain left in any medical discipline he had been introduced to; even the most vague and private cultures denounced pain as something to be eradicated.  Bashir saw this as a noble and necessary cause, and never stopped to think of it as a step to take on the road to recovery, itself.  But now, as Garak’s panting subsided into calm, steady breaths, and his uncomfortable hunch became a more familiar pose, he _understood_.  He had oversaw the gateway between pain, the wire, and immense pleasure before, he had _commanded_ it, and taken control of it, and it was no fault of Garak’s for seeing that presence as attractive.  

“Here, darling, here,” Bashir said, in spite of himself, as he reached for the scouring brush.  

He rubbed the metal bristles over the loosened _cura_ to prolong the pain, hoping to sweeten the relief when it was finally allowed to come.  Garak squirmed under these ministrations, but his line of thinking was very much the same.  

“ _Yes_ , Julian, ohhh… thank you,” Garak said, sitting back and shutting his eyes as he relaxed.

Remaining in their boundaries was difficult, but they were both blessed by a stubborn streak, and refused to be the first to give in.  Garak made several suggestive offers, and Bashir found each one uniquely tempting, but declined.  And Bashir had left lingering kisses over Garak’s unguarded neck, while his shoulders soaked, but Garak did not comment on it one way or the other, until Bashir gave up and composed himself.

“I cannot wait for you to get me out of this basin,” said Garak, expectantly.

“Is it too cold?” Bashir asked, doing his best to distract from Garak’s obvious intention.

“Cold, yes.  And solitary.”

“ _Elim_ ,” Bashir said this warningly, and broke contact of the bristles with Garak’s back.  It was as backward as ever, but pain _was_ good in this context, and he was not about to give Garak positive reinforcement for pushing the boundaries, “for _god’s sake_ , be patient; I thought _I_ was bad.”

“You were _young_ ,” Garak corrected.  “And I _am_ in love.”

“Thank you…?”

When the water had cooled past Garak’s comfort, Bashir helped him to stand and step out, and proceeded to dry him with immense care, dabbing his muscles with a microfiber towel.  Against his chula, Bashir leaned close and gave a hot breath, watching the droplets of water separate and roll rapidly downward.  Then, he took the brush from the corner of the tub wall, and began to work his way down Garak’s spine, letting the towel fall away.

The wide scales loosened, and Garak whimpered, and Bashir brushed harder and harder, until their breaths were short and hot and intermingled.

“ _Please_ ,” Garak stopped just short of begging in more detail, because Bashir was still applying the wire bristles, and it was a monumental chore for him to speak.

“Not _yet_ , Elim.”

Garak lifted his arms and turned, directing Bashir’s attention to the darts of scaling that ran from beneath his shoulder to settle over his pectoral muscles, squarely framing his _chula_.

With smaller scales, Bashir found he could remove them more quickly, allowing him to truly satisfy Garak’s compulsion for pain for the night.  He scratched over the arches relentlessly, watching bits of skin catch and fall away through the back of his grated instrument, and Garak _groaned_ , relieved and excited all at once.

“T-touch?” he asked, still struggling with his words.

Bashir obliged with his free hand, delicately tracing the raw, flat scales, glistening red under the tension of their release.  Soon, these would form and stiffen as usual, but for now, they were incredibly soft, and each little touch made Garak mewl.

“You’re doing _wonderfully_ , Elim,” Bashir praised his conduct - as murky as the boundary may have been - and his uncontrolled physical reaction. “Let me get your salicylate, and then we’ll be all finished.”

“Might we… skip the topical medication?” Garak asked.

“I’m sorry, but no,” Bashir insisted, and backed away enough to make himself seem convincing.  “I can’t have you missing doses _while I’m right here_.”

Garak kindly took the brush from Bashir’s hand and continued along his pectoral ridges until the last of the old scales had fallen away, while Bashir retrieved the cream from a cabinet.  Upon application, it felt intensely hot, but then cooled to distract the wearer from registering pain, even though the coldness was unpleasant in itself.  He explained it to Garak as some human phenomenon: scratching an irritated patch of skin until drawing blood, and then feeling perfectly satisfied and stopping.  The blood was not an ideal byproduct, but was far pleasanter than the itch had been.  So, Garak could enjoy the heat until it tapered off, and the alternating sensations would occupy him past feeling how bruised and sore his weathered scales had become.

“Er, Mister Garak,” Bashir said, holding the pot of cream, and causing Garak to turn around in surprise.  “Hold still for me, please.”

“Certainly, Doctor,” he replied, regressing to formality for the sake of Bashir’s comfort.  Surely it would be too difficult for him to maintain professional composure while oiling every _millimeter_ of Garak’s body.

Bashir nodded politely, and bent over instead of dropping to his knees, and began to massage the coolant in little circles on Garak’s belly, first, where the scales were smallest and most concentrated, before working upward to the patches they had shed today, together.  He failed to resist kissing the space immediately above Garak’s _chuva_ before lathering it, and Garak looked down at him, amused.

“I can finish, myself, if you prefer.”

Passing the cream over, Bashir agreed to allow this, but only under his supervision.  He took a few steps backward, for a complete view of Garak, and gave simple, solitary directions, because both of them needed a reminder of their roles, by now.

Although, really, sitting and watching Garak coat himself in a shimmering lotion did little to deflect Bashir’s attraction.  Garak had kneaded up his own legs, bending low to rub the soft scales on his ankles, before working upward to his knees, then dipping between his thighs, ending where Bashir had left off...

“...and your _cura_ ,” Bashir went on, as Garak was almost finished, “I will help, if you can't reach.”

“Would you, please?”

Bashir stood and caught Garak’s hand, stroking it reassuringly before setting it down at Garak’s side, and taking a handful of cream for himself.  This, he kneaded into the _cura_ until it was glistening beneath the single light in the bathroom, reflected off of mirrors and the shower-glass, brightening the whole compartment.  The skin was raw, and the thin scale was nearly translucent as it grew in place of the one they had scratched away.  Bashir gave it a careful pat when he was finished, before stepping back and putting the cream away in its cabinet.

“That should do it, Elim.”

“Ah, yes,” Garak tutted with his tongue, “and _now_ I cannot touch you for thirty minutes.  That is where the _real_ pain begins.”

“You cannot touch _anything_ for thirty minutes,” Bashir said, over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the bedroom.”

Remaining constantly in one another’s company had heightened their desires in ways mere meetings had not.  Now that they essentially lived together, at least for the two-or-so-months it would take Garak to finish regrowing his scales, it was not just convenient, nor expected… it was _right_.  Without really pushing the topic - beyond the times they discussed Marel and Saret’s marriage union - Bashir had somewhat taken on a spousal role, himself.  He did not want to talk about it, for his own sake as much as Garak’s, but it made their boundaries very difficult to keep aligned; surely a _spouse_ could help care for the other, before and between sexual closeness.  A good deal of his life was based in performance, in adapting and withholding, and he had confused himself, this time.  He was thankful that Garak adhered to his own rules better than he did, for now.  Perhaps that was because Garak could not see just how _lovely_ he was, in his vulnerability: a thought Bashir had and immediately wanted to slap himself on the wrist for.  

But Garak’s skin was smooth and soft, and had taken on a more tannish tone as the deep red blossomed up beneath the molting grey, and Bashir found it mesmerizing.  Not _human_ , in any fashion, but perhaps close enough to make this all feel real and natural.  He would unwind the problems with that line of thinking later.  Now, he paced in the bedroom and waited for Garak to join him, where he would stand like a tempting statue in a gallery, barred from touch, where the marble looked so _soft_ and flowing that _all Bashir wanted_ was to feel it for himself, and understand it.

Garak came in soon after, his entire body shimmering beneath the cream.  He stood still in line with the viewport, certainly meeting the standard of ‘statuesque,’ commanding Bashir’s full attention.  Oh, it was all so backward by now, Bashir shook under the weight of his conflicting thoughts and desires, and all the words left unsaid.

“What would you like to do after your half-hour-set, Elim?” he asked, willing himself to sound authoritative.

Garak raised his orbital ridges at this, and promptly winced, as the motion also dragged up the little lines of wrinkled scales that ran along the perimeter of his forehead.

“Hmm, well.  I’ll think of something,” Bashir said to himself, turning to follow Garak’s gaze out the viewport.

He could hear Garak stepping closer, and spun again.

“Ah-ah,” he warned.  “Wait.  Computer: set a timer for thirty minutes.”

Garak stood there until his restraint was well and truly shattered, to the point he sighed in frustration when Bashir beckoned him over, precisely two seconds before the timer expired.  Eagerly, he sank to the bed, and Bashir’s hands roamed over him, under the pretense of checking that the lotion was dry.

It was, and both of them were thankful.

“I am not your doctor, now, Elim,” Bashir felt required to say.

“I am _delighted_ to hear that, my dear,” Garak replied.  

By now, Bashir’s hands had crawled up from Garak’s belly to rest beneath his arms, helping him to settle back on the bed, setting aside a special cushion to pad his _cura_.  Garak tried but failed to conceal several winces, squeezing his eyes shut and harnessing his breaths.  

“Shh, shh,” Bashir said, right away, “it’s alright to be _sore,_ Elim.”

“I suppose it _is_.  Forgive me, I tend to… ignore some of my needs in favor of other, less practical ones.”

“You are not a burden to me, Elim, and you are _not_ a disappointment either.”

He loosened his grip and returned to Garak’s belly, where he rubbed gently, while Garak trembled.  Bashir exchanged his fingers for his lips, kissing softly.

“No more pain, now, remember?”

“I remember, but I was _so_ looking forward to _engaging_ with you, and it… hurts.  The last time I went through this, Julian, I was alone, and had my wire on its highest setting the entire time.”

“Shh,” Bashir repeated, drawing his lips together into another kiss.  “It’s _all right_ , Elim, don’t worry.”

His lips trailed lower down, until he came in contact with the microscaling around Garak’s seam; these, and the ones on his stomach, would be among the last Garak would lose, as they protected many vulnerable organs as well as the concealed reproductive system.  He continued kissing, and Garak registered the feathery-light touches as much more intense than they truly were.

“Mmm,” Bashir sighed into the soft, flushing skin.  “You want to?”

Garak considered the deceptively simple question: _yes_ , he wanted to, but he _could not_ , because it would _harm_ him.  So he said these words exactly, in this order, and Bashir replied with a measured expression and a sweet little nod.

“I said I’d think of something, Elim.  And I _thank you_ for not asking me to _harm_ you, tonight,” he said, carefully using their private terminology.  He had ‘hurt’ Garak already, in loosening his scales, but anything further would cross the line.

With the pads of his thumbs, he opened Garak’s seam, parting the folds gently to either side, and he crouched down low, in order to breathe in his scent.  Taste, too, gathered in his throat, and he gave out a pleasant hum as Garak nodded and enthusiastically spread his legs.  His breath was warm and welcoming, and Garak was powerless against it.  

Bashir massaged for some time, with only his thumbs, pressing them into the pliant scales and continuing to breathe deeply - in and out - over Garak’s slit.  The warmth was as relaxing as it was maddening; Garak willingly submitted to the predictable pattern Bashir gave him, and felt his fluids begin to pool as a result of the temperature.

But this was just as Bashir wanted.  He paused for a moment, and the sudden interruption was enough to command Garak’s attention. 

“This is how I am going to take care of you tonight, Elim,” Bashir said calmly, “I am going to have you orally, for as long as I want to.  You do not need to evert, and you do not need to speak.  If you want to do either, you may, but they are not my objectives, for now.  Do you consent to that?”

“I do,” Garak replied, words clear and detached.  “I _passionately_ do, Julian, _please_.”

It was becoming less and less strange to hear these feelings directly from Garak’s mouth, and Bashir felt blessed by the custom.  In return, he smiled, and agreed, and positioned his lips in a line perpendicular to Garak’s seam.  At first, he kissed with a tantalizing softness, until Garak was silently begging for more, widening his stance and supporting his weight on his arms, then wincing when his raw scales had to bear his sudden movements.

Bashir calmed him and steadied him, curling one hand outside of each thigh, not letting him spread uncomfortably wide.

“Ah-ah-ah, Elim,” he said quietly, leaving Garak to decide whether it was teasing or genuine, because Bashir failed to aim either way, himself.  “I can _see_ when you’re going to harm yourself, _trust me_.”

Panting but retaining his words, Garak settled back again, flat except where the cushion arched his _cura_.  He _did_ trust, and it was now a matter of expressing that silently - not only because he enjoyed the scandal of doing so, but because this _was_ Bashir’s best-understood language.  For years he had watched and made his deductions, either taking Garak’s words as truth or deciding to ignore them entirely, while Garak had done very much the opposite, delighting in the times Bashir reacted with embarrassment and mumbled platitudes, as they drew each other reluctantly out of their comfortable spaces, using their complementary fluency to the other’s disadvantage.  It was not so, in this encounter.  Garak was going _let himself_ react naturally, physically, and leave the task of interpretation to his partner, who thrived in this precise atmosphere.

“There we are,” Bashir affirmed, as Garak soothed himself, “isn’t that better?”

Bashir worked his tongue inside Garak’s seam slowly, tracing the rim of it before separating far enough to breach the slit, itself, sealed away behind the two folds of scaled skin.  The inner faces of his folds were soaked thoroughly, and Bashir grinned to himself - an act that made Garak squirm - before tightening his hold on Garak’s thighs and continuing.  Gently, he presented the slit between his thumbs, nuzzling it briefly with the tip of his nose, and then he began to taste.  He kept his tongue wide and flat, filling the entire breadth of Garak’s entrance, luxuriating in the way the softened folds trembled around him.  Garak’s taste was as sweet as ever, and Bashir was content to take his time.

There was no experiment at play, no desire to test boundaries.  Bashir could easily have asked questions and tested his ability to read Garak’s physical responses, but he made his own inquiries silent, too, because he know how much Garak liked this chance to relax completely.

He wondered, foremost, if Garak had done something like this before to a partner, and he asked by beginning to lick varyingly, rather than leave his tongue obstructive and still.  In reply, Garak squirmed, as expected, but also gave a mellow sigh, one that sounded as if it had _just_ reached a point of understanding.  Bashir took it as a ‘no.’

Then, he added one finger, for the sake of stability, tracing the seam in a reassuring pattern while continuing to alter the strokes of his tongue.  When he exhaled, he did so with soft, warm air, and took in the enchanting sight of Garak’s scales rising up for him, and paling to that lovely thistle shade.  Doubtlessly, this was a request for ‘ _more_ , please, Julian.’

With his other hand, he reached to cup Garak’s hip, and pulled him upward, relieving his lower spinal scales from the inconsistent pressure of his writhing, and instead offering relief with the warmth of his hand, behind, and his breath, in front.  

This tempted Garak to the point of canting his hips further, and he whined in frustration, unable to stop himself from rolling them upward, forcing his seam into harder contact with Bashir’s chin.  When Bashir pulled back from this, he wiped his face on his wrist, and gave Garak an amused and completely unoffended look.

“Mm, that’s fine, Elim,” he assured, a devious and decidedly youthful glint in his eye.  “I _like_ you to serve me, this way.”

Still using his index finger alone, he breached Garak’s slit further, until he came in contact with the sheath, and the ridge that ran along its swelling underside.  He had no desire to force Garak to evert, however; he merely touched it once, as if in a dedication ceremony, before holding the place open and stretching with his tongue.  He could not touch it this way without causing himself to gag, and he knew that, so he did not overexert himself in his one attempt, but he smiled in satisfaction as Garak’s legs tensed on either side of his head.

Suddenly, he took both hands and gripped Garak’s hips, and pulled his slit more harshly against his face.  He moved his tongue at the same time as Garak rutted his hips, and both of them found the friction _electrifying_.  Garak’s slit was greatly stretched out, by now, and leaked his fluids copiously even without Bashir’s interference, so Bashir moved slightly upward and began to toy with the seam-scales softly between his lips.  Garak whimpered, begging for more, but he was never given pressure from Bashir’s teeth - that would cause _harm_ to the sensitive skin, its effect only heightened during his shed.  Garak stilled himself, gripping the sheets until the little scales on his knuckles were white, and Bashir pushed on, not to stretch a boundary, but to give Garak the pleasure he deserved.

Scooting himself to sit higher up on the mattress, he lifted Garak’s legs to rest on either shoulder, so he could _bow_ to take in his offering from Garak’s slit.  He nuzzled Garak’s chuva with his nose before bending his head again, and _devouring_.  Garak trembled, and scrambled to tighten his grip on the sheets, but already he had unbound them from the upper corners of the mattress.  Instead, he had to seek stability from Bashir, who held his hips securely, but still allowed him to thrust if he wanted to.

Bashir took in the picture he had created, with Garak his subject, hair wet and untidy, hands desperately digging for purchase, hips serving his mouth beyond Garak’s sense of control.  It was wonderful.

As this went on, Garak could not deny his approaching orgasm.  He knew Bashir did not _mind_ taking him orally - as he phrased it, like he was some old fashioned medication, how _romantic_ \- but he still would feel impolite if he neglected to give a warning.  Bashir did not really _need_ one, as he could feel each little tremor that seized Garak’s slit, and the uninterrupted pulsing of his cock inside his sheath.  But Bashir drew his head back long enough for Garak to make the offer, his eyes and mouth crinkled shut, and a low sound coming from his throat, all easily understood.

“I’ve got you, Elim,” he said, before licking up the length of his slit again, slowly and indulgently.

Garak knew this, and he also knew how badly he had tampered with his own sexual responses over the years.  His eversion was forever slowed and staccatoed by his abuse of the _tukka_ , and he never heard his own moans as enticing - only _pained_.  Bashir did not _mind_ these things either, and was in fact pleasantly surprised when Garak whined and began to evert into his mouth, before shuddering at how _offensive_ he was surely behaving, and trying to wriggle his hips out of Bashir’s grip.

“Elim, _Elim_ ,” Bashir said reassuringly, “shh, it’s _okay_ , I’ve _got you_!”

He was ready to stop if Garak continued behaving this way, but he wanted to offer a soothing approach, first, to let Garak know he did not need to be _embarrassed_ when they were together, especially not of a physical reaction, over which he had no real control.

Consciously, Garak relaxed, but promptly tensed again moments later; he realized he had _climaxed_ before fully everting, with Bashir’s head still bowed diligently between his legs.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Bashir said, in wonderment rather than disappointment, like this was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, let alone _caused_.

He withdrew his tongue, and focused instead on using it to make Garak feel clean, mentally and physically.  Sliding his arms back again slowly, he lowered Garak to lie flat, and licked gently around Garak’s slit, where his penis remained half-everted, leaking semen from all three ducts at once.  

“ _Oh_ , Elim,” he said again, touching him tenderly, moving his cock to clean beneath it.

Garak felt like he was being pitied, and huffed.

“I _was_ a bit enthusiastic, there, wasn’t I?” Bashir chided himself playfully, and reached up to rub Garak’s belly in soothing little circles.

“My entire body is so… sensitive… during this time,” Garak admitted, quietly.

“Elim,” Bashir repeated, before clicking his tongue.  “I know that isn’t a _lie_ , but you don’t need to make any excuses to me, either.”

“I feel I should not be _allowed_ to penetrate your mouth,” Garak said, more truthfully.

Bashir nodded and sighed, and moved to lie beside Garak on the bed, once he was satisfied with cleaning him.  Still, he reached down to stroke Garak’s belly, fascinated with the rounding his own always lacked, and he hoped it made his partner feel comfortable, too.

“If you don’t like it, we won’t do it anymore.”

“No, it’s… rather more complicated than that.  Because I _do_ like the feeling of it, very much, as you can see.  You are sure it does not offend you?”

“Not at all.  Is it too _human_ for you?”

“That must be,” Garak decided, although he was still not sure. “But as long as I know it does not offend you, I will allow myself to enjoy it, as well.  Surely there are compromises to be made from both perspectives, and I, for one, am proud to have made progress.”

“I’d agree with that, Elim.  Well said,” he snuggled in, perching one hand on his shoulder and placing a kiss on his lips.  

Then Bashir folded his body in the middle, so he could reach lower with his hands.  He began to stroke Garak’s penis as it softened, and Garak followed him downward.  Rather than touch himself intimately, he pressed the base of his palm firmly against his belly, in the space beneath his _chuva_ , keeping himself from retracting so Bashir could continue stroking to his own satisfaction.

“Would you have any interest in penetrating me, otherwise?” Bashir asked, “I mean, _not_ my mouth…”

“You’d allow me to?”

“Yes, of _course_ I would.  You’re not-- you can _serve_ like that, Elim, I’d give you whatever commands you’d need.  Would you enjoy it?”

“I daresay I would, Julian.”

“Then I will establish a scene for us, when you’re through shedding.  Something to look forward to, hmm?”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these keep getting longer and longer, I am out of control and apologetic.


	16. 10:08

_E Garak_ _  
_ _Personal Log  
_ _1008 hours_

 Today is _the_ day.  No, not for us to use the whip, although I _know_ Julian has been practicing with it - his posture and gait when he returns to me, some nights, are dead giveaways.

We are going to finish my shed, after he has finished work and - presumably - also his private practice.  I will be home all afternoon and evening, waiting and preparing myself.  I have done reading, and filed my nails, and oiled my scales to ease resistance.

I do… hope I do not disappoint him. 

 

*****

It was safe to say, by the final phase of Garak’s _Ecdysis,_ that Bashir’s focus on him _was_ constant.  On the odd chance they were not physically together, Bashir was working diligently on designing his provisions of care.  This included making typed drafts of their upcoming scene, in addition to a more acceptable patient chart of prescriptions and rehabilitation times.  He switched back and forth between the tabs while he sat at his desk for lunch, checking over his shoulders and smiling to himself as he completed them both in short turns.  

Additionally, he felt clever for taking Garak’s whip out of storage, and sneaking away with it to the holosuite once a week, toting it in an inconspicuous little shoulder bag.  Garak was not permitted to use anything from his collection at the time, although Bashir guessed Garak could work out _why_ , and _what_ had been removed.  But if - _when_ \- Garak found out, he would only be excited, anyway.

Positive progress was made in Bashir’s private sessions, until he could land the fall precisely where he aimed it, and he could produce a satisfying _crack_ as he drove it through the air, regardless of the time it would impact the skin.  He practiced over a padded bench, its skin thick and leathery like Garak’s, and equally hard to break.  Of course, if he failed to land it over a strong enough scale, he could easily scar a ridge or cut into unprotected flesh, and he kept this thought tight in his hand as he gripped the handle and improved himself.

When he was finished for the day, he turned off the suite lights and the loud, high-pitched Tholian music he had taken to listening to, so Quark could not eavesdrop on his activities, curled up the woven rope, and tucked the entire instrument away in his shoulder bag.  He rushed _home_ to find Garak for their final round of scouring, and, if all went well, the special scene Bashir had devised.

“You look almost _absurdly_ young when you smile that way, Julian,” Garak said, in greeting.

The door sealed behind Bashir, and he ran his hand along his chin to determine just how wide the offending smile was, before giving a noncommittal nod.  

“No, I didn’t mean to discourage you,” Garak went on, “I’ve missed that face.”

Garak broke into a far milder version of it, and ducked into his partner’s arm in order to be led to the bathroom.  There was more to be said, about how bad news far outweighed good news in the face of war, how tensions naturally ran higher and were prone to snapping like a tightly tuned string, how one could feel alone even in performative solidarity… but they both remained quiet, and devoted to each other, and looked forward to relieving their stress together, tonight.

There were precise steps to be followed, which Garak admittedly enjoyed, and Bashir relaxed into.  First, they were going to grind off Garak’s abdominal scales against a softened salt brick, foregoing the bath entirely, before using the brush for any finishing details, administering an antiviral shot at a point over Garak’s belly, and then beginning the _encounter_ itself.

The last remaining scales of Garak’s sloughing coat were dispersed over his hips, stomach, and seam.  They had been left alone, so far, and had loosened somewhat on their own in the months of harsh baths and brushings.  Tonight’s activity did not cross Bashir’s boundary for harm, so he felt no need to begin a separate scene as Garak’s doctor - that could wait until long afterward, when he needed to be wrapped and tended to softly before bed.  For now, Bashir could begin _immediately_ as a lover, and he took up the brick with that same visionary smile on his face.

“Listen to me carefully, Elim,” he said in a low voice, which Garak had to lean in to fully collect. “You know what you’ll get if you do that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Garak said, nodding for good measure.

“Tell me.  Tell me the terms and the outcome.”

“ _If_ I do exactly as you direct, and am able to finish my shed, _then_ I am allowed to penetrate you, tonight.”

Bashir’s smile softened on one side, solely to make the curve of the other corner more dramatic and devious.  Originally, he was not so fond of the term ‘allowed’ - of _course_ Garak could, when they were both in the mood for it - but he realized it made Garak feel more confident, so he did not deride it further.  He only hoped, in the end, the activity would present itself as a reward, and not a chore; he did not believe his own body would compare favorably to that of a female Cardassian - or perhaps Garak had even meant a male, when he made mention of his past.  But he had worked out the mechanics of it, and knew it would at least be _possible_ , and he guessed from some of Garak’s other tastes that he would find it pleasurable, too.  He remained hopeful, and Garak certainly _looked_ eager.

“Good.  Undress.”

The ceremony began in the same way it always did, with Garak carefully pulling his shirt up over his head, and his trousers down over his knees, and folding them up and draping them over the bath-ledge.  Bashir paid special attention to his arms - the most recently re-grown patches of scaling - and praised Garak’s commitment to instruction.

“Those look very nicely oiled, Elim, thank you,” he said, and Garak gave a bashful grin.

“Yes, I thought I would take a precautionary dose while you were away at the holosuites, dear.”

Bashir made a conscious effort _not_ to look surprised, and repeated ‘good’ again while Garak bent down to unlace the sides of his undergarment - thick and modest for this season.  Working it downward from his chuva, where the hem began, he stepped out of it, and Bashir held out his hand to collect it and put it away with the others.  This began Bashir’s turn, and he undressed himself swiftly - with Garak watching - trying not to stumble in his haste.

From the shelf in the bath, Bashir collected the brick and the scouring brush, offering them forward and planting himself firmly in place.  

“Here, Elim,” he said, putting the brick in contact with Garak’s skin, “and please _try_ harder not to evert, this time.”

“I’m sorry, I--” Garak began, in a brittle, melancholy voice.

Immediately, Bashir nudged him gently with the brick and shushed him.

“No, it’s alright, Elim; I understand even a _spy_ can’t control _all_ of his reactions.  I won’t _let_ you evert, it’s alright,” he repeated, until Garak nodded.

Garak was committed to trying harder, anyway, because he did not expect the bristles would be a welcome sensation on his penis; Bashir agreed in these terms exactly.

“Go on, I’ll… keep a good eye on you, darling.”

“In that,” Garak said, “I have complete faith.”

Bashir set down the brush - focusing just on the salt, for now - and wrapped his freed hand around Garak’s back, forcing constant pressure between his belly and the salt brick.  Then he rubbed his hand in a pattern, up and down, and firmly, and encouraged Garak to move in a similar way, grating his final scales over the brick until they could loosen.

“Ahh,” Garak said at first, and then he groaned.

As promised, Bashir supervised him carefully, and all the movement did tempt Garak to evert - Bashir could fluently understand the twinges of his _chuva_ , thanks to their previous encounters - so he altered his approach.  

“Hold still, Elim.  Nearly there…”

Garak stood and took hold of Bashir’s shoulders, while Bashir moved the brick in harsh, even strokes over his belly and seam, attentively avoiding his _chuva_ , which would be damaged by the act.

“Oh, Elim, that’s _excellent_.”

At this point, he swapped instruments, and Garak winced audibly when the bristles met his skin.  The patch of scales was thoroughly loosened, and began to fall away, one-by-one, as the brush bit them.

“Tell me, does it hurt?” Bashir asked, already knowing the answer; it brought both of them satisfaction to express the truth, however.

“Oh - _mmm_ \- yes…” Garak’s nostrils flared as he fought for another breath, and Bashir knelt down to observe his progress more closely, based on this reaction.  

After taking a look, he placed a trail of kisses over the outside of Garak’s thigh, rubbing the brush over his abdomen simultaneously, and positively _thriving_ on the alternating yelps and coos Garak gave him.  

“Just about… _yes_ …” Bashir panted along with his partner, “good, Elim, _perfect_.”

With a definitive and gentle touch, Bashir wiped away the last of Garak’s dangling skin, and then stood up again.  Garak earned a tender kiss for his efforts, which faded from his lips to his cheek, before Bashir excused himself to gather the necessary implements for the rest of their evening.  He returned with the cooling cream, his own tube of lubricant from many encounters ago, and another antiviral series for each of them to take.

Feeling Garak’s belly intently with his palm, Bashir chose a target for the injection, and gave it as Garak shivered, overwhelmed.  While Bashir gave himself his own dosage, Garak was able to calm down again, and wasted no time in coating his exposed skin with the cream.  It would _only_ go on his belly, tonight, leaving the rest of him free to _touch_ even during the setting period.  

That left them thirty minutes for their other preparations, both verbal and physical.

Twisting the lubricant open, Bashir met Garak’s eyes and addressed him.

“You don’t _need_ to speak unless you have a question; I will answer _all_ of them.  But for now--” Bashir paused to squeeze some of the liquid into his palm before setting the tube aside, intending to use Garak’s tactile learning style to their collective advantage, “-- _watch_ , and then, when I tell you, copy exactly what I do.  Understood?”

“Yes, thank you,” Garak replied, before flattening his lips together and hoping to keep them that way.

Bashir gave an amiable grin, and moved his slickened hand to inventory Garak’s slit, sliding over it in a purely illustrative way.  Reactively, Garak’s seam parted somewhat, and Garak nodded for Bashir to continue.

“Now, as I’m sure you _know_ ,” Bashir explained, “our anatomy is somewhat different, but you will use this process: spread your legs, and let me prepare you, tell me if it _hurts_ or _harms_ at any point.”

Garak did as he was told, and with surprising gentility, Bashir worked his way inside the _cloaca_ with a single fingertip.  This, he kneaded in small circles, while Garak sighed softly and opened his posture to request more.  

“ _Slowly_ ,” Bashir emphasized, dipping further inside as he continued the pattern.  “Now, _you_ happen to lubricate yourself; I do _not_.”

“So I assumed,” said Garak, keeping his lips as closed as possible.

“So you will need to be _thorough_ and careful, please.”

Garak made quiet, sincere assurances, and Bashir looked on with love in his eyes, having fantasized about this day for _years_ , but always in a way that seemed to _just_ bend reality.  He worked in a second finger, reminding himself this was actually about to happen, and willing himself calm.  It would not be possible for him to see Garak perfectly, soon, and he had to resign himself to losing his reading ability and replacing it solely with trust.  In a spy, a saboteur… and a submissive lover, expected to follow his orders.  He reinforced this entire line of thought to himself, and continued rocking inside Garak’s slit with his fingers.

Within his sheath, Garak’s penis began to swell and stiffen, and Bashir became increasingly careful not to press too hard into the ridge that would force him to evert, just yet.  He liked to see Garak do this on his own.

When he was satisfied with the circumference he was able to cover inside Garak’s slit, Bashir withdrew his fingers and showed them to Garak, demonstrating the line at which his fluid suddenly ceased.  

“Not _too_ far, see?  And _slowly_ … I mean - well, you wouldn’t be doing it with anyone else, I suppose - but  _I_ like it slowly.”

Garak nodded eagerly, and offered his own hand forward in a gesture Bashir found almost unsettlingly attractive, perfectly submissive, _willing to serve_.

“Good,” he said cautiously.  “Here, Elim, your turn…”

He worked the lubricant onto Garak’s fingers, and took hold of his wrist, guiding his hand while he spread his own legs for Garak’s admission.  The position was not yet ideal - they were still facing each other - but Bashir wanted to _see_ Garak work, for as long as it was practical.

With a hesitant grin - because this, too, was unheard of on Cardassia - Garak stopped his finger just shy of Bashir’s opening, and waited for permission to enter.

“Nnnh,” Bashir sighed as Garak breached him, “No, that’s fine, Elim; I didn’t mean to worry you… it’s… been a few years.”

“How many?” Garak asked, merely to see how thoroughly Bashir was willing to indulge his curiosity.

“Oh - _nnmh_ \- eight.”

“And did you enjoy it, then?”

Bashir had rather expected Garak’s questions to be more… scientific.  But he was not going to break his word now, so he answered _all_ of them.

“Not… not terribly much, no.  But it was - _ahh_ , careful -” he gritted his teeth when Garak suddenly slipped further inside, genuinely unfamiliar with the effect of the lubricant, “- it was the company that was unpleasant.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” Bashir said back, like a ‘yes.’

But that hardly passed Bashir’s own standards; Garak waited for him to _actually_ say ‘yes’, and even to nod his head.  He had a confession to make, and he continued fingering Bashir _much more carefully_ as he did so.

“I _have_ been whipped before,” he said, “in much the same fashion.”

“Hmm.”

“The… _company_ was not pleasant, but I still _do_ crave the sensations.  I wonder how well I can separate them…”

Bashir nodded thoughtfully, now, and came to his own private decisions about that activity.  But they were not readily important, so he did not voice them.  Instead, he focused on reassuring his partner; nothing would be achieved if he was not steadfast.

“I will make _sure_ you can keep them separate, Elim.  And as for me - you don’t need to worry, because my memory is not set up in _nearly_ the same way.  It was just a difficult breakup - alright? - that’s all.  I like this _just fine_.”

Knowing Garak’s impressions would be different, and likely that the _company_ in question was intentionally short-term, Bashir was sure of his decision.  They would _not_ be using that exact whip, no matter how well he had practiced with it, himself.  Cardassian memory was precise, and segmented, and if the partner was long gone, the precise implement itself still occupied an unpleasant place, even if Garak would not admit to possessing the subconscious to recognize it.  For him, the association occurred too quickly.

With Bashir reaching down again to lead him, Garak eventually added a second finger, and the silence was preserved except when Bashir could not resist an inviting little moan or whimper.  He backed himself against the bathroom wall, and hitched his leg up at Garak’s waist, encouraging him to hold it in place.  

“You can go a _bit_ further, if you care to learn about the human prostate,” he explained, after Garak continued more confidently.

In affirmation, Garak did as Bashir suggested, posing the question physically before getting his answer.

Bashir’s explanation began as a purely medical one, but ended, hopelessly, with “and it can be _very nice_.”

Garak committed all of it to memory, and began to vary his strokes, only teasing the node occasionally, earning a _very nice_ sigh from Bashir each time his nail touched it.

“ _God_ , Elim, _yes_.”

The thirty minutes allotted for Garak’s cooling cream to dry had mostly elapsed, so Bashir became comfortable enough with the idea of touching Garak’s belly again.  He rubbed it resolutely beneath his palm, and, as his own cock began to harden, he moved it out of Garak’s way and instead aligned it with his _chuva_.  At this sensation, this _heat_ , Garak bucked his hips, and began to groan again when Bashir returned his hand, pressing himself into the sensitive curve repeatedly.

“I’m ready for you any time now, Elim,” Bashir said, a bit breathlessly, beginning to dribble his own precursory fluid into Garak’s _chuva_.  

Apologetically, Garak removed his fingers and reached inside himself to force eversion, but Bashir quickly tried to reverse his misgivings.

“But I think I would do better on the bed,” he instructed, tensing his leg to indicate that he was tired of holding it up.  

Garak gratefully released his hold, and followed, in quiet anticipation, to the bedroom.  After smoothing out the sheets, Bashir felt _slightly_ ridiculous, as he climbed up on all fours and presented his backside, for Garak’s approval.  Even from here, his cock strained upward, which Garak found both curious and alluring, and such a _shame_ that Bashir did not have a _chuva_ to put to good use; he sat down at Bashir’s side on the mattress, and palmed at his slit until he felt compelled to evert.

“Will _you_ be comfortable standing, Elim?”

“Yes, my dear, I should think so.”

Bashir turned to glance at him - smiling his encouragement, nodding his excitement - and then shimmied his hips, in spite of himself.

“You can give me some of _your_ lubricant, Elim - I think that will be fine - and then _slowly_ … penetrate…”

Garak copied Bashir’s earlier motions, fingering his slit to gather his fluid, before reinserting his fingers into his partner’s anus, moving carefully.  When Bashir was satisfied, he repeated the command to reacquire Garak’s focus.

“You can take your fingers out, Elim… _good_ ,” he said, when Garak did so, _slowly_ , “and then - yes, that’s it, insert--” it sounded decidedly too medical in his head, the way he was going, so he hid his embarrassment and continued, “-- _serve_ me, Elim.  Give me _-_ ahh--”

Garak had taken himself in hand, as he had seen Bashir do previously, and pressed the head of his cock into Bashir’s opening, teasing it, ensuring it would accommodate him.  Bashir was grinding his teeth, and then his hips, as he crawled back to the edge of the bed, where Garak stood over him, waiting to make his way inside.  Bashir reached back for a moment to help him, and Garak _yelped_ as Bashir thrust backward against him.  Garak’s natural lubrication, as well as narrower-than-human-average width, allowed Bashir to take him with relative ease, but he was still not accustomed to the act, himself.

“Elim?” Bashir asked, when Garak was fully inside, and stationary, “are you alright?”

“...Yes,” Garak replied, once he accepted the sensation; Bashir was warm and wonderfully constrictive, holding him firmly and moving with him when he began to thrust his hips, at last.  

His eyes felt cloudy, like he was somehow tricking himself into the sight Bashir presented him, even as he _felt_ the intricacies of his body, and the love and trust endowed in their shared act.  Truth was indeed a multifaceted thing, and he would likely not believe this until it was over, and all of the evidence was presented for him to study.

“You can, er,” Bashir began quietly, after Garak had been still for longer than usual, “hold onto my hips, if you need to, or my shoulder.”

Garak still felt hazy, above the situation rather than within it, and gathered the conviction to make a request.

“I will, Julian… but I’d like to-- _may I_ kneel?”

“Yes, Elim.  You may.  Come here.”

He shifted forward on the bed when Garak’s cock slipped out of him, allowing Garak the chance to kneel directly behind him, and then find his way once more, much more comfortably, and secure in his role.  Then, he held Bashir’s hips, gently pushing and pulling him to complement his own thrusting, both of them crying out when he stroked Bashir’s prostate.  

“I want _more_ , Elim: take my shoulder, and then, nnnhh--”

Garak took hold of Bashir’s shoulder, and found one of Bashir’s hands meeting his other, over Bashir’s tensing abdominal muscles.  He took Garak’s hand and nudged it upward, toward his penis.

“M-multiple points of stimulation,” he recited, knowing Garak would understand, no matter how precarious his attention had become.

Pulling him back by the shoulder, Garak found he was able to penetrate more deeply, and when they were both satisfied with this, he took Bashir’s cock in his hand and began to pump it in time, digging his nail into the solitary urethra when Bashir asked him to.  Bashir squirmed and sighed happily, and encouraged Garak to continue, until they were both aware of Bashir’s prostate contracting in reaction to the onslaught; he was close to climaxing.

“That’s _so good_ , Elim,” Bashir praised, with intentional simplicity.  Oh, he still had the energy and composure to give a _speech_ , but he resisted; Garak liked the silence, and the allowance it granted for him to volunteer himself.

It was Garak who spoke next, after several minutes of this.

“I don’t want to,” he gasped, “... _offend._ ”

Bashir understood this, too, from previous sessions, and spoke calmingly while Garak loosened his hold and then withdrew from his body.

“That’s alright, Elim.  You did _so well_ ; tell me what you want, now.”

Garak was struggling to resist the urge to collapse onto Bashir’s back - he did not want to engage in anything even remotely like _suffocating_ \- and breathing heavily.

“I want to be put back in my place.”

“You’re going to need to be more clear than that, darling,” Bashir said, remaining neutral instead of snippy.

“I’ve, _oh_ ,” Garak said, as his cock twitched in its sudden solitude, “I’ve taken control of you, but I do not want either of us to climax that way.  It wouldn’t be _right_.”

Even though Bashir still considered it a role - perhaps not one solely to be _performed_ , anymore, but _lived_ in Cardassian society - he understood Garak’s meaning clearly, and came up with a plan to oblige.

“Lie down beneath me, Elim.  Get on your back.”

Thrilled to be receiving not just instruction, but _command_ , Garak did just as Bashir ordered, folding his legs so he fit completely underneath him.  Then, Bashir leaned back, resting on his knees, closing the gap between their bodies, and gesturing for Garak’s hand.  He took this when it was offered, and returned it to his penis.

“Make me ejaculate, then, Elim,” he instructed.  “ _Serve_.”

Garak shivered at this, but began to stroke firmly, twisting and tightening his fingers and listening for the subtle shifts in Bashir’s breathing; Bashir kept himself well under control, though, forcing Garak to move more passionately.

“What else do you want?” Bashir noted the glint in Garak’s eyes, chasing after his thoughts, inside.

“Will you… will you mark me?” Garak asked, unsure of what _else_ Bashir could possibly do, but not wanting to be impolite.

Bashir found this delightfully perverse, and irresistible - and it had not occurred to him before, but now he could not strip the thought.

“Yes, Elim.  I will.  Because you belong to me, and I want you to remember that.”

Both of them were so lost in the scenario, so _elated_ , so deeply connected to one another, in tune to wants and needs and fantasies… as Garak went on pumping Bashir’s length, Bashir bowed over him more confidently, stretching to reach his neck.  Their reactions were entirely intertwined by this point, so that when Bashir bit down and sucked the soft flesh between his teeth, Garak whimpered and tightened his grip on Bashir’s cock, and Bashir came at almost the same instant he released Garak’s neck, only to take it back into his mouth again to darken the mark further.  While he did this, his semen stained Garak’s chest and belly, and he continued thrusting his hips into Garak’s grip long after his release was over, moaning ‘ _Elim’_ into his neck and aural ridge.

Garak’s shuddering was only intensified when Bashir broke away from his neck, and reached to attend to his penis, instead.  Again, he pressed the head of it into line with Garak’s _chuva_ , making Garak bite down on desperate, half-spoken words, until his own climax was through.  Bashir held onto him the entire time, letting Garak squeeze his hand as tightly as he needed to, to process the competing sensations, while he rubbed his length sharply with the heel of his palm, letting his fingers curl around to toy with the delicate ridge-line.  

Afterward, Garak did not feel the need to speak for nearly an hour, and even then, it was only to ask for a bath and another coating of his topical medication, to soothe the irritated skin on his stomach.  Bashir had been content to lay beside him, draping one arm loosely over his chest and idly stroking his pectoral ridge.  But then, he was equally content to offer the care Garak needed, so he diligently helped him back to the bathroom, propping Garak up - his full weight digging into Bashir’s shoulder - while they waited for the basin to fill.

“Will you join me _this time_?” Garak asked quietly, and Bashir nodded right away.

“Yes, darling, of course I will.  I’m a bit of a mess myself, you know.”

Garak did not believe that, and felt positively _filthy_ , but made notable improvement when Bashir sat with his back to the tub wall, and welcomed Garak to lean against his chest.  

When they were alone, Bashir never felt as if he was showing off or drawing dangerous attention to himself when he did several tasks at once.  With a mild soap from the cabinet, he lathered and cleaned Garak’s belly, while his other hand drew back Garak’s hair out of his face.  At the same time, he took in a deep breath of Garak’s scent from his jawline, where his gland was safely buried beneath exoscaling.

“I’m going to see what I can do about making this one purple,” he said, amused, glossing his lips over one of the newly-grown scales on Garak’s neck.

His target was about halfway between the crest of Garak’s shoulder and the line of his chin, and Garak agreed with the choice even before Bashir voiced his reasoning.

“ _Low_ enough to be hidden by a _high_ collared shirt, hmm?  Enough to draw attention, but not for anyone to guess _why_ …” Bashir closed his lips at a tantalizingly slow speed, following with his teeth.  

“I think my sudden change in attire might make the _why_ obvious, my dear.”

He went on scrubbing away the dried semen from Garak’s belly as he did this, biting and nipping and intermittently leaning to the side to check his work, which he took pride in.  So did Garak.  During this time, the only sounds were decidedly wet, echoing from the basin where Garak was gradually being scrubbed _clean_ , and from his neck, where Bashir closed his lips again and again, keeping him _dirty_.

When the mark was complete to Bashir’s standard, Garak asked to touch it, and clasped his fingers over it carefully, committing the shape of the swell to his memory, using it to guess the shade of purple Bashir had reached.

“I also think,” Garak continued, “that it’s good practice, every once in a while: to deny the obvious.  I _like_ it.”

“I’m… so amazed by you, Elim,” admitted Bashir.  He had meant to say something about their whipping appointment, how Garak’s expectations would not be met, how _guilty_ that made him feel… but Garak was quiet and peaceful, and he would feel even worse for spoiling that.

Garak turned his head to the side, and Bashir stretched to reach him, and they shared kisses until the water had cooled.


	17. 21:18

Decorative Border

[ ] Roses with stems

[x] Hydrangea vines

[ ] Rembrandt tulips

Inside Message

[ ] Typeset cursive

[ ] Fed. Standard text

Or

[x] Specify handwriting approximation: Julian Bashir

[x] Specify Language: Kardasi

Message:  Happy anniversary, Elim.  Here’s to many more _._

_Printed 21:18 hours_

***** 

Bashir collected the card and a single armful of gift boxes from the industrial replicator, and then returned quickly to his quarters, not stopping to talk to anyone along the way.  His meeting with Garak was scheduled for 2130, and he needed to pack the gifts - which he had ordered far more privately - into their boxes before he could leave.  The bouquet he had ordered from Quark’s interplanetary catalogue was outside his cabin door without a card attached, looking like it was left as a gift _for_ him - if a viewer did not stoop to study the flowers it was comprised of too closely.  He collected this and found a little home for his printed card in between stems of Cardassian irises and snapdragons, and the Terran red roses and a single white lily.  He had not put much thought into the composition of it, but believed the colors looked nice enough together; these were the varieties Quark could provide fresh on this particular date, and he hoped Garak would approve more strongly of _fresh_ flowers than purely exotic ones.

But he was wasting too much time, now.  With the gifts boxed and sealed in metallic paper, he stuffed them under his arm and made his way to Garak’s cabin.

Garak had made similar preparations, of things meant to be fresh and intentionally completed at the last possible moment, and so, he called for the door to open with a whisk still in his hand.  This was soon abandoned in favor of helping Bashir carry in his belongings, and Garak took special care to hang up his overnight bag outside of the bedroom.  

“That’s…” Bashir observed, trying to place the room’s aroma, “ _nice_.”

The table was already set with a tagine of honeyed pears, dishes of Terran biscotti and Cardassian fruit preserves, platters of savory pastries, and a setting for tea.

In addition to the luxurious meal, Garak had also prepared _himself_ , oiling his scales and starching his hair and designing a very particular pattern of sheer lace which he now wore beneath his clothing. The trap was set for Bashir to _fall_ into, and Garak could picture him stumbling and doing just that.

“Nearly ready,” said Garak lightly. “Would you care to sit down?”

“Yes, darling, thank you,” Bashir said, allowing Garak to lead him from the threshold to one of the well-cushioned dining chairs.  

Garak delighted in fussing over details, and arranged the serving dishes at Bashir’s side, where he then fluffed up a pillow for himself, while Bashir looked on in grateful awe.  When the _sut_ was whisked to the desired consistency, Garak brought the pan over, and used the whisk to coax out the broken caviar-like delicacy onto Bashir’s plate. The roe was sourced from a Cardassian sturgeon, and oceans themselves were rare enough to merit a high price and a low availability; Garak smiled and did not disclose his ‘connection.’

Setting the pan aside, he snuggled into his place and prepared a spoonful of the spongy cream - a texture Bashir found perfectly agreeable. Garak leaned in to kiss him, before feeding him, and reverently stroking his side as he chewed and swallowed.  Cardassian meals were long and leisurely affairs, and neither felt any urgency as Garak distributed each and every course.  After Bashir was through with the _sut_ caviar, Garak fed him tenderly from his hands, encouraging him to take his time, feeling endeared instead of annoyed when Bashir teasingly took a stick of biscotti between his lips, and lingered on it for a long while.

On this night, they were united in a love of sensory exploration, and their plans were naturally complementary even without much prior discussion.  Garak was not immensely fond of surprises, but all he knew to expect on this occasion was his whipping, so he did all he could to ensure a fair exchange.

He sat and fed Bashir with a steady hand, and peppered his temple with kisses before finally turning to eat his own dinner. At this point, Bashir thanked him profusely, and Garak took every positive comment on the taste and composition right to his heart.  They settled down with a shared glass of brandy, and then Garak went to arrange a vase for his bouquet.  This, and the provision of dinner, were the only gifts exchanged by this point; the rest would wait until the start of their sacred encounter.  Bashir collected his boxes when they were ready, and brought them to the bedroom.  The vain streak buried not-too-deeply inside of Garak was looking forward to presenting _himself_ as the final gift for his partner.

Their bedroom was warm, and the wall lights were dimmed almost into nothingness, which Bashir approved of.  He prompted Garak to open one of the boxes, in which he had wrapped a blindfold.

“Let me help you, darling,” Bashir offered, taking Garak’s wrists in his hands to guide. “And _then_ you can open the rest.”

In this fashion, the blindfold was lifted, and Bashir began to tie it while Garak held it in place, until Garak let out a shy and disappointed little sound.

“What’s the matter, Elim?”

“I… rather wanted to _see_ you open your gift, dear,” Garak explained, and Bashir carefully fastened the blindfold over Garak’s _chufa_ , instead, agreeing to slide it down later.

“Of course,” he said, trying not to look around too expectantly for a box; knowing Garak, it would be something small and _truly_ surprising.

Garak folded up the side panel of his tunic, revealing a ribbon he had worked into the line of hook-and-eye fastenings.  Curious, Bashir pointed at it, and then himself, and began to untangle it from the closures when Garak nodded permission.  When he was able to lift the shirt, he saw the same ribbon trailing down to Garak’s trousers, and so he removed these, too.  The ribbons remained intact over a delicate suit of lingerie, which Garak had spent _days_ weaving for himself, lacing it shut on both sides.  

The suit began at the point of the _cura_ scale, and the hem rested gently over this and Garak’s clavicle, leaving a wide and typically Cardassian collar, allowing a complete, dramatic view of the neck.  Bashir took this in for a long moment, before breaking the spell enough to look further down, let alone to speak.

“ _Elim_ ,” Bashir said again, in a small and _truly_ surprised voice.  “This is - _you are_ \- just _stunning._ ”

With careful fingers, he began to roam Garak’s body, taking in the details of the floral pattern, all spun in black lace.  Rosettes darted over Garak’s pectoral ridges, drawing the focus to his _chula_ , framed in an oval of sheer fabric; his _chuva_ and _cloaca_ were given similar treatment, with darts running from his hips and his inner thighs, respectively.  Bashir discovered each of these, too, in time.

Garak was lying down contentedly beneath him, letting him explore, enjoying the expressions that passed over his dear face as he touched the soft fabric.  It was quiet, during this time, with Garak arching himself into different positions, granting Bashir whatever access he wished without a word, delighting when Bashir rubbed him, and then scratched him, and occasionally nipped at him.

Eventually, though, Bashir was able to voice his gratitude, and then rolled down Garak’s blindfold before presenting the next gift box to him.  They unwrapped it together, and Garak found his hand guided to something unmistakably made from silicone.  

“We might try that one, later,” Bashir explained, letting Garak weigh the little sphere in his palm.  He had found the switch pressed into one side of it, and Bashir told him it was made to vibrate, and he trembled already, at just the thought.

In the final box, Bashir had stowed the whip.  It was not Garak’s original device, but one he had customized from a special catalogue.  The fall was shorter than Garak’s had been, more readily controllable, and it culminated in five splayed endings, tied up in tiny knots.  He sat down at Garak’s side and began the introduction, letting him feel the handle, first, before brushing the cords gently over Garak’s forearm, having him count the ties against his sensitive scales.

Garak shivered at ‘ _five_ ,’ and Bashir only went on.

“That’ll still cut your skin, if we aren’t careful,” Bashir said, to appease any apprehension Garak might be feeling at the loss of his much stronger instrument.  “But I thought you would do better with… more points of stimulation, instead of just the one…”

Even without the admission, however, Garak would have understood perfectly, and he was deeply thankful that Bashir had made him something special and _new_ , without any connection to his prior, and poor, experience.

“We’ll use it, Elim,” Bashir said softly.  “But first, you and I need to get into the right mindsets, hmm?”

“Oh, yes.  I quite agree.”

Suddenly, he was aware of Bashir leaving the bed, and standing up; Bashir paced to the other side of the bedframe, and leaned over it with all of his weight resting on his arms.  He considered Garak’s posture, the way he was helpless both because of and in further search of Bashir’s attention.  A conscious effort was required for him to begin removing the lingerie without tearing it off, just yet, so Bashir held back after untying the bows on each side.  The ribbons fell limp at Garak’s sides, and he trembled in the sudden absence of Bashir’s touch.

Soon, he substituted his fingers for the falls of the whip, gracing them delicately over the ribbons, before drawing lines all over Garak’s body, first following the established pattern of the lingerie’s seam-lines for Garak’s comfort before straying to excite him.  With expert care, Bashir prodded at Garak’s chuva with the top end of the whip, stopping at the precise moment Garak squirmed in genuine pain.  

“Feel the handle, Elim,” Bashir suggested, laying it down so it balanced atop Garak’s _chuva_ , and keeping hold of the ties for himself.

The weight of it was enough to rest in the indentation of the delicate ridge, but not so heavy that Garak found it uncomfortable.  When Bashir let the ties fall, he paid special attention to the way Garak’s microscales reacted, prickling and swelling to catch the impact, sweating to ease the blow. Combined, it gave an appearance almost like glitter, and Bashir was enthralled. He collected the knots in his fist and did it several more times, varying his targets.

Garak began to give deep, encouraging breaths, and Bashir held onto his shoulder and turned him tenderly to lie on his side.  He tried to undress himself between tugs at the lingerie lacing and kisses to Garak’s exposed skin, not wanting to break contact any longer than necessary.

“I’m being careful with it, Elim,” Bashir promised. If he stretched, he could reach to drape the garment over the bedside table. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of destroying your _fine_ craftsmanship, now get your hand away from your blindfold.”

Even though Garak was only teasing, he complied and took down his hand. He was grateful for this confirmation of Bashir’s focus, and his willingness to take charge. As Bashir nestled into place again, he checked the tautness of the blindfold by slipping a finger beneath the back of it, and he held it in place while he redid the knot.

They were both undressed now, and despite the usual warmth of Garak’s cabin, Bashir unrolled the thick blanket from the foot of the bed, smoothing it with both hands into Garak’s skin, continuing their heightened sensory exploration. Garak hummed, satisfied.

“Mmm,” Bashir echoed, “that’s nice, isn’t it?”

Garak made a quiet, agreeable noise, and snuggled back into Bashir’s waiting arms.  Bashir was always considerate of Garak’s limits, and knew he did not like to be held closely when they were facing one another. But for now, he was safe and warm, and he cooed in surprise when Bashir began to kiss his nape and rub his _chuva_ at the same time.  Scooting downward, Garak became vaguely aware of Bashir’s erection, and more so when Bashir hooked his leg around Garak’s waist, keeping him impossibly close.

He leaned in over Garak’s ear, and began to whisper, stopping just shy of kissing his aural ridge.

“I could make love to you all night,” he said, and then he drew the ridge gently between his teeth.

The doublespeak alone was enough to stir Garak viscerally.  Bashir had already proven that he was physically able to fulfill this claim, and the soft way he said it meant he found Garak immediately desirable, too.  Garak reached down to touch his seam, in response, feeling it quiver.

Bashir caught his wrist, and used his grip to slap Garak’s hand down more firmly.

“And I would like nothing more, but I need you to hear my rules first.  Will you listen to me?”

He had not planned to progress quite so quickly, but there was no harm in it, as long as Garak agreed.

“I will, yes.”

“I want to watch you evert under _my hand_ at the whip,” Bashir continued. “I want to _see_ how it arouses you; I want undeniable proof of the power you’ve given me.”

“A-ah,” Garak tried to vocalize through his shiver; Bashir had managed to master him even in conversation.

“So, if you are offering yourself to me _now_ , you must not evert.  Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Garak bit his lip, as Bashir dove into his seam with two fingers.  Already he could feel Garak’s sheath bulging, and he knew he had intervened at just the right moment.  Without constant pressure, Garak would break the rule in no time at all.

But Bashir’s rules were not designed to punish Garak, and he tried to avoid anything that would require physical correction.  Instead, he saw the limits as equal challenges for himself, tasks to strengthen their bond and deepen their dependency, and he was always willing to provide whatever assistance Garak needed in order to follow them.  So, he kept his fingers buried, forming them into a V-shape to surround the sheath.  As it began to emerge, the head of Garak’s penis was caught between Bashir’s fingers.

“That’s alright, darling, I’ve got you. Shh,” Bashir brushed his lips along Garak’s temple, and worked to plan his next move efficiently.  “Will you turn over for me?”

Increasing the pressure he put on his lower lip, Garak obeyed.  The reaction itself heightened his awareness, and distracted him from the compulsion to evert, so that he was able to roll over onto his other side, facing Bashir and abandoning his fingers.  He still had the blindfold on, of course, but was aware of the warmth radiating from Bashir’s face, especially when he ducked in to kiss his shoulder in praise of the outcome.

“That’s very nice, Elim,” he said, taking hold of his bicep and forcing him to close the gap.  “If this _harms_ you, or overwhelms you in any way at all, _you tell me_.”

“Immediately, yes…”

Bashir was going to let the pause settle, but it continued ebbing between them like a tide, and he knew Garak was not _lying_ , but he was certainly not being straightforward.

“Tell me,” he repeated, with a good guess in mind of what Garak wanted, but _needing_ to hear it expressed.

“It’s… too dark, Julian, please.”

 _Immediately_ , and matching Bashir’s own suspicions, he trailed his fingers to the blindfold, and twisted and rocked it upward until it had loosened, and rested over Garak’s _chufa_ , where the pressure would be appreciated far more than the darkness was.

Garak’s hand was still pressed tight over his seam, and even this minor act of consideration on Bashir’s part only excited him further.  He was not accustomed to anyone else taking such high regard for his needs, no matter how basic; sometimes he was careless with them, himself.  If this situation had not been so safe and welcoming, he would have tried to talk himself out of the fear, even with arms around him and another body _against_ him, trapped in the darkness to be _used_.

Bashir built on this reaction, and, knowing that apologies only made Garak more quick to dismiss himself, put his hands gently over Garak’s chest, tracing the scaling to soothe him.

“I’ve a better idea.  Here,” he indicated his body, as he shifted to lie on his back.  

He moved his hands to his own chest, then, continuing to rub in circles, eventually lowering them down toward his abdominal muscles, and then to the insides of his thighs, where he patted audibly.  

“ _Sit_ ,” he said.  

Shaking slightly - and in pure anticipation - Garak did as he was told.  He widened his stance, sighing in relief when Bashir took over the task of applying pressure to his seam, and, together, they aligned his body with Bashir’s straining cock.

“Mmmhh,” they breathed more or less together, as the penetration occurred.

After the year they had spent together, it was not difficult at all for them to understand each other, even when Garak surrendered his speech.  Bashir rocked his hips and pushed Garak back so he was braced against Bashir’s folded legs, and soon they felt equally comfortable and _alive_.  Garak’s seam parted, and his folds tensed up as Bashir began to move inside him; thrusting became easier with each repetition, as Garak offered his fluid, and soon Bashir gritted his teeth not with exertion, but enjoyment.  

“ _There_ , Elim,” he insisted, and Garak lowered himself, drawing his hands to rest at Bashir’s side, where he liked to feel for his ribs.

With Garak planted more firmly in this position, Bashir found himself suppressing an uncharacteristic whine; the angle was _intense_ , and granted him easy access to Garak’s very base, as well as surrounding pressure from all of Garak’s weight at once.  Bashir could hold and carry him competently, but he had not yet had the pleasure of doing so in an intimate setting.  For the same reason - Garak bearing down with all his weight - Garak would not be able to evert, not even a _millimeter_.  He was filled completely, and felt each little motion shake his core.

“Oh, _Julian_ …”

Interpreting this, and the way Garak’s head fell back, Bashir reached for his hips and grabbed them firmly.  He began to force Garak’s movement, guiding him up and down, then back and forth, choosing his approach based solely on Garak’s reaction.  Garak was so pliant, now, so resigned to providing pleasure; Bashir knew to push _just a bit further_ , before sacrificing his command to Garak’s volunteerism.  It was strange at times, and inverted, but it was beautiful, and it _worked_.

“Mm, that’s it, Elim,” Bashir said strongly, “ _take it_. Take it, Elim, _good_.”

Garak’s lips closed over unsaid endearments, and then, as he gathered the conviction to finally complete them, Bashir removed his hands.  At first, Garak was unprepared for this and slumped forward, needing to catch himself on Bashir’s arm to sit up again.  It had become his turn to serve, and he would not disappoint.  

He rolled his hips gradually, bearing forward until he found an angle both of them liked.  Then he flattened himself, willingly invading Bashir’s space, sharing breaths and kisses.  Bashir settled his arms at his sides, keeping himself from entrapping Garak between them, and _shivered_ when Garak chose to pin them in place, digging his nails into Bashir’s wrists as he steadied himself.  Garak increased his force with each repetition, panting and grunting as he struggled to accommodate Bashir’s length, while Bashir gave encouraging kisses to the crown of his head, mumbling his name softly into the filament.

Buried in this contrast, blurred between roles and responsibilities, Bashir’s climax approached him as a surprise.  Garak was aware of his whispers growing louder, less coherent, and he suddenly stilled himself, and leaned back to rest against Bashir’s legs, even as they tensed.  He needed to assert himself now, if they were going to have a successful encounter to follow.

“ _Elim_ ,” he said, voice more detached and cold than either expected.  “Get on your hands and knees.   _Do not_ evert.”

It was difficult for him to be disappointed, having enjoyed their previous position _immensely_ , but it was also difficult for him to feel in control.  He recognized how Garak had struggled with this exact mental loophole in the past, and he tried to soften the sharp pangs of withdrawal.

“You were _amazing_ , Elim, don’t worry,” he said quietly, as Garak turned to rest on his hands and knees, instead, “but I want you to _keep taking_ , tonight.”

Before Garak’s cock could even threaten to evert, Bashir slipped inside of him, finding the _cloaca_ nicely widened, and warm, and wet.  He sighed pleasantly, in a low voice, and Garak nodded in agreement.  This angle was almost the same as before, so none of the building sensation was lost, and Garak eagerly adapted to being mounted as his role required.

Bashir did not whimper anymore, nor did he kiss tenderly.  He growled subvocally, and he bit, and Garak _took_.

While he chewed at his favorite of Garak’s neck-scales, about halfway down toward his chest, Garak made a quiet utterance, and Bashir’s focus snapped back to him a second too late.  Oh, he had struggled with words all his life, but Garak was his to command, and he took full advantage.

“What was that, Elim?” he asked, directly beside his ear, pressing their bodies flush together as he thrusted.

“I said… _‘please_.’”

“Please _what_?”

“Please… f-f- _finish_ ,” Garak offered, in place of the usual euphemism - _offend_ \- a substitution that Bashir found indisputably arousing.

“You old romantic.  I think I will,” he said, in confidence. “And Elim?  You will _not_.”

Garak swallowed harshly and agreed, nodding and mewling until Bashir had filled him with all he had to give.

After a time, Bashir pulled out and continued stroking himself until he was calm again, while Garak breathed deeply and pressed his slit intentionally into the mattress.  Bashir tutted his tongue, but cut the edge of this with gentle kisses, as he helped Garak to turn over another time.

“You’re… _perfect_ , Elim.  Thank you.”

Garak smiled and cupped his slit with his hand, while Bashir fetched their new silicone toy from its box beside the bed.  

“Can you listen to me right now, Elim?”

He waited for confirmation - knowing Garak could become overwhelmed in situations like this - and held up the toy in his hand for Garak to see.

“You may orgasm with _this_ , if you would like to.  Would you?”

“...yes, please,” Garak said. “I’d like to try.”

Bashir’s eyes glinted, and he switched the device on before pressing it into Garak’s palm, allowing him to study it briefly.  Then, he nudged Garak’s legs apart, and slipped the toy into place between Garak’s folds.  Strained noises spilled from his lips, as the toy both rubbed and caught his penis, in a way even more unsettlingly good than the _tukka_ had ever managed.  Bashir oversaw this with pride, and made slight recalculations for the rest of their anniversary.  Garak had earned this reward, and he would get it, but they would need some time to relax before the whip was taken out.  

He was perfectly content with that, and Garak did not seem to mind either.  

While the toy went on buzzing, Bashir straddled Garak’s belly, letting his cock tease the _chuva_ , before leaning low to kiss and suck on his exposed throat.

“ _All night long_ ,” he said peacefully, while Garak writhed helplessly beneath him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is *almost* done so if you have any wild requests, I gotta have 'em now, and then I'll... try and cram them into the last Encounter <3
> 
> anyone sick of me making up Words yet? No? Good.


	18. 00:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buy me a coffee - :)  
>  ko-fi.com/garakinglasses

The egg-shaped toy went on buzzing between Garak’s folds, and Bashir gradually shifted downward in time with the variance in his yelps and stutters.  When he determined Garak was at the edge of orgasming, Bashir climbed off of him and stood to one side.  He went to the computer panel, next, and manipulated the placement of the mattress, so he could pace in a complete circle around it.  The bed slid forward slowly, rocking Garak gingerly in its grasp, and then the mechanism slowed to a stop.  

Bashir timed himself, completing a circle by the time Garak’s whimpering formed into words.

“It… _just_ hurts, Julian…” he expressed, “M-may I?”

Ordinarily, Bashir would insist on complete clarity, but Garak was so lovely to him in that moment, conducting himself so admirably, that he let the omission pass.  He stopped at Garak’s side, kissed his cheek, and said, “you may.”

As Garak came to completion, Bashir looked intentionally into his eyes, and the connection was felt as almost tangible between them.  Garak was quiet, and shuddered as he spent himself, before growing talkative and still once more.  This made Bashir feel reassured enough to disconnect from his gaze; he went to the pile of discarded boxes, and took out the whip.  He set it on the bed, letting it roll to rest under Garak’s arm while he was touching his _chula._

“How do you like it?” Bashir asked, with a half-set smile.  He reached in to shut the toy off, but left it in place for now.

“ _Torturous_ ,” Garak said, in a tone that meant ‘wonderful.’

“I’m glad.  Now… why don’t you rest a moment, and I’ll get everything ready.”

Being an expert at mimicry, Garak returned the precise strength of Bashir’s smile, and rolled his head to one side, folding his arm up in order to support it.

“I will certainly enjoy the view,” Garak remarked, nodding his head but not touching the blindfold.

Bashir did not argue with compliments when they were genuine - and Garak’s _always_ were, even years ago when he slipped reversals of them into lies, to be worked out on their own, because he knew Bashir _liked_ puzzles - so he nodded down at Garak and set to his work.  

“Keep your hands at your sides,” Bashir warned, when he had to step closer, “or under your head is fine, as well.  Just don’t touch anything else until I say so.”

While he longed to disobey this order, particularly when Bashir leaned in over his chest to adjust his blindfold, he stayed firm.  Bashir slid it upward and tightened it, so it covered about half of Garak’s _chufa_ with tight pressure, and stretched up to his hairline.  The goal was to keep Garak mentally engaged, as stimulation of the _chufa_ was liable to provide; it was also _imperative_ that Bashir could watch Garak’s eyes and face while under the whip.  For a similar reason, he would not be turning Garak over to strike his back.  No, it all had to be visible for this first session.  Bashir explained his methods as he began to enforce them, before reaching to take hold of Garak’s forearms.  He held these tightly, demanding all of Garak’s attention.

“You _must not_ put your arms up to block the blows, Elim.  I wouldn’t be able to stop in time, and the impact would cut you,” he said, beginning to massage the soft flesh below Garak’s wrists.  “If you need to be restrained in order to do this, that’s _fine_ , but you will _ask_ me.”

Then, he released Garak’s arms, and smoothed them to rest against the bed, running parallel to Garak’s head, framing it, and letting his wrists bend at the edge of the cushion, so his fingers dangled over it.  

Bashir took up the whip, and Garak only flinched when he realized he was _not_ about to be hit, just yet.  Instead, Bashir turned it upside-down, and traced an expanse of skin with the end of it.  Regardless of the stiff appearance of ridges, they were pliable and quite easily cut and scarred.  Scales, while more sturdy, could be dislodged and torn off entirely, which was painful regardless of the method.  These limitations were understood between the two of them, and Bashir reinforced them as simply as he was able.

“This is all I will be touching,” he said, drawing his own outline as well as a deep shiver from his subject.

The accepted boundary curved around Garak’s hips, where the abdominal ridges ran, and stopped at the edge of the microscaling which shrouded his seam.  Bashir drew _two_ lines here, at slightly different widths, indicating how the limit would change when Garak was finally permitted to evert; the swell of his shaft would affect the surrounding skin.  

Anticipation built and built within them, but Garak was in no rush.  Cardassians _could_ be notoriously patient, and he found Bashir’s soft explanations exciting all on their own.  Eventually, though, they came to an end, and Bashir turned the instrument over in his hand.

He stood at Garak’s side, and with a final nod exchanged for permission, he took over control.  As he raised the whip to his side, the falls glistening in his periphery, Garak began to pant, and swallowed hard in preparation, and then contact was made.  He had almost forgotten about the stationary toy inside him, blocking him, until he tensed his legs and reflexively drew them together, focusing all of his movement on his lower body so his arms would remain still.  Bashir found this satisfactory, and went to hit the other side of Garak’s belly, mirroring the mark with his _chuva_ at the horizon-line.  

With this V formed around it, pointing upward to the rounded swell - leaving the ridges to draw the eye into the pointed bottom end - Bashir stepped back to take in a more complete view.  Garak bit his lip but nodded favorably, and Bashir returned this.  

“Good, Elim,” he said.  “I’m going to remove the vibrator…”

Garak could still see him, easily, but Bashir liked to narrate his actions so there would be no surprise.  Now, when he leaned in to perform on this promise, Garak knew to spread his legs again, and he rolled his arms over so that he could grip the edge of the mattress with his fingers.  Bashir took it out, and paused with his eyes shut to process the scent of it, before setting it aside on the table to sanitize, later.  

He returned to his post, and made a third mark, in a straight line over the top of the _chuva_ .  The five knots splayed out like fingers, leaving little red bruises at the far end of the line, connecting one at a time, but only by milliseconds.  Still, Garak’s responses were heightened, and _trained_ to even more impressive levels, so that he felt each fall separately.  Bashir watched him process the numbers; infinitesimal flickers passed through his eyes, and they brightened when the final value was reached, before he allowed himself to blink in satisfaction.  This concept tempted Bashir…

“Count them _verbally_ ,” he said.  “That’s fifteen.”

Garak nodded.  Cardassian custom required one to count _down_ , but he did not know how many to expect, so he began to count upward by Terran sets of five, and by the time he reached forty-five, he gritted his teeth and rocked his head to each side.

“F-fifty,” he said raggedly, and at this point, he began to evert.

The process was slower now than it had ever been; Garak’s purse was left tacky with Bashir’s semen as well as his own, and the sensation of the whip was so fleeting, impossible to cling to for as long as he needed.  Observing this, Bashir made careful adjustments to the force he used, and felt unmatched pride when each consecutive stroke made Garak’s length emerge further and further.  It was only because he had lived his whole adult life suppressing reactions that he was able to do so now.

Bashir swallowed with admirable restraint, then shifted his legs apart to make himself more comfortable.  

“Seventy,” he prompted, and Garak returned to his assignment with shaky breaths but a steady voice.  

By now, his abdomen was neatly patterned, symmetrical on both sides except for the minor variations in the landing places of the little knots.  The lines creased and purpled in the centers, darkening in a radial around the _chuva_ , in the precise order Bashir had inflicted them.  Garak was fully everted, but not yet suitably stiffened, so Bashir gave two more strikes, stopping at Garak’s impassioned call of _‘eighty_.’

“Do you _like_ it, Elim?” Bashir asked, using his free hand to grip Garak’s penis in the exact same way he gripped the whip’s handle.

Garak became very quiet, and Bashir did not embarrass him by requesting repetition.  He merely paused his movements long enough to register the admission.

“It feels… yes, I do, it feels _astounding_.”

With a sly little grin, Bashir acknowledged this, and resumed the movement of his hand at Garak’s cock, twisting and applying unsteady pressure, sliding up and down with increasing ease.  When he stopped again, it was only to dig his thumb into Garak’s uppermost seminal duct, as far as it would go.  He yelped in surprise; there were no numbers to keep his mind occupied and his reactions under control.

Bashir retained his hold and stooped down, to replace the tip of his thumb with that of his tongue.  Garak’s vocalizations became steadier and more relaxed, and Bashir widened the opening enough to taste the precursory flow of Garak’s semen.  At this point, he withdrew, and raised the whip in front of himself to study.

“Not tonight,” he said, not-quite-reluctantly, “but some other time… wouldn’t these feel nice inside?”

He held up the knots enough for Garak to see them, his chin pressed hard against his chest, and it was quiet.  Of course, he would not use actual woven _knots_ for anything so dangerous, but Garak’s preference was always to be _filled_ , overwhelmed with sensation, and Bashir was glad to come up with something exciting enough to follow whipping.

To maintain this feeling - allowing Garak to test it safely - Bashir kept his hold around Garak’s penis, pressing firmly against each of the three ducts with one of his fingers.  Then he raised the whip again for use, and waited for Garak to take a deep breath and look at him.

“I’m nearly finished, Elim.  These will _hurt_ ; please keep your arms as they are.”

Garak nodded, and Bashir brought his instrument up higher than he had previously.  The falls made five different whistles of barely-distinguishable pitches, and Garak clenched his eyes and mouth shut in prelude to the contact.  Bashir was increasing the force, and the falling distance, and - to accommodate Garak’s eversion - the range.  He remained at Garak’s side, standing in line with his waist, and gave three hard strokes to each side of Garak’s _chula_ , flushing and trembling to avoid the onslaught, which ran narrowly between it and each pectoral ridge.  All five falls made a blossoming mark that stopped _precisely_ beneath Garak’s line of clavicle scaling, and he shuddered as he tried to continue counting them.  Bashir’s name won out in the end, and he whined it.

“Shh, that’s alright…” Bashir soothed, “do you need me to stop?  Tell me, Elim.”

He had nearly exhausted the unclaimed skin, and the pattern he had designed could only tolerate another two strikes, at its maximum.  It would be no tragedy for him to stop early, though, he was sure of that.

Garak shook his head and spoke rhythmically between deep breaths.

“No, I don’t need you to stop, Julian.  I… want you to continue but I… worry I am forcing this act from you.”

Granted, Bashir did not see a reward in the activity.  He could revel in the power Garak loaned him, and he had practiced tirelessly to ensure no harm would come to his partner, but it did not bring him the same pleasure it did Garak.

“I don’t _mind_ , Elim.  Two more, hmm?”

“You are _so_ considerate to do this for me, but it is as you tried to demonstrate much earlier on: I don’t want you to feel inferior to me.   _I_ am feeling wonderful, but I am not gathering the same from you.”

Bashir took a step back, genuinely surprised, and rapidly working to unravel his motivations and emotions.  It was hard work; he shook his head, now, too.  In his stead, Garak continued.

“Perhaps this has become… too daunting, and too well-rehearsed to be satisfying.  The physical sensation is _marvelous_ , but I do not feel quite right mentally.  Do you?”

“I do not,” Bashir readily admitted.

To further his understanding, he dropped the whip, and nudged the handle with his foot so it stopped against the pole supporting the bedframe, out of sight.

They were quiet for a moment, and Bashir seriously considered apologizing, but hesitated at the last second, having opened his mouth and coughed, instead.  Whenever he apologized, it made Garak almost unbearably agreeable, but insistent that the fault was his - either he had _misled_ Bashir with vague intentions or actions, or he had done something wrong in between orders.  It always came down to a conscious mistake on Garak’s part, never a subconscious one or some small reaction inspired by trauma he would not admit to - so Bashir stayed quiet until he knew what to say in place of an apology.

“So you... _don’t_ like it?” he asked, simply.

“I do.  But I _would_ be lying if I said I didn’t like _you_ even better.”

Bashir’s lower lip trembled until he bit it, before he leaned over Garak’s body, took hold of his shoulders, and kissed him tenderly, urgently on the lips.  He was careful not to put their chests in contact, for fear of upsetting Garak’s singeing welts, so he pulled back earlier than he wanted to, and was far more gentle than the realization called for.

“What would you like to do, then, Elim?” he asked, as if continuing the trail of thought the kiss had started, unspoken but understood clearly between them.

“I was rather hoping you would… make love to me all night.”

Another kiss, another silence - more comfortable this time - and then another soft expression.

“I was hoping for that, too,” Bashir said.

No part of him could understand the purple lines as beautiful, desirable, but he rubbed them lightly, and Garak said he was ‘very happy with them.’

“An important piece of the imagery is the symbol itself,” he continued, and Bashir rolled his eyes in an amused way, “I plan to remember tonight fondly, long after these have faded.”

Intimacy with a race - and a particularly adept individual - who could plan their own memories was somewhat daunting, but Bashir rose willingly to the challenge; he could be _perfect,_ and might have intimidated anyone but Garak.

“Here, Elim.  Sit up,” he suggested, offering his arms and helping Garak to do as he asked. “I’d like to just… kiss, for a while.”

He settled one hand over Garak’s belly, keeping a constant gauge on the temperature of the whip-marks, and the other crept behind Garak’s neck, over his shoulder.  As they kissed, he applied pressure by pinching Garak’s nape, and he swallowed down every muffled, grateful cry Garak gave against his lips.  

They sat together with their legs folded, facing opposite ends of the bed, and Garak felt no need to move beyond burying his hands in Bashir’s hair, committing every dip and wave to memory.  He remained everted and erect during their peaceful intermission, but his mind was not yet occupied by the compulsion to remedy this state.  Bashir smiled at him with love in his eyes, and trailed his hand down from the marks once they had cooled and whitened, stroking Garak’s sex without any urgency at all.  He welcomed Garak to rub against his hand, keeping it still and flat, until their breathing became faster, deeper, and decidedly lustful.

With his hand still at the base of Garak’s neck, Bashir helped him to recline, before pausing to taste the residue left on his palm from Garak’s rutting.  He could write entire novels about the sweet mystery of it, and Garak found himself trying to reciprocate; when Bashir reached down to stroke himself, Garak followed  his fingers.

“May I touch you?” he asked politely, and Bashir immediately granted permission, even removing his own hand in favor of Garak’s.

Garak held onto him softly, reverently, and barely moved.  

“What do you… want now, Elim?” Bashir asked, working hard to keep his voice neutral, not at all impatient.

“Oh, a long list of things,” Garak explained.  “I am trying to choose.”

Bashir giggled amiably at that, and gave Garak another few moments to make his selection.

“May I taste?” Garak settled on asking.

“Yes, of course you may.”

Without using Garak to support his weight, Bashir stood and waited beside the bed, teasing himself until he felt better prepared for this.  The last thing he wanted was to overwhelm Garak - who already struggled with controlling his breathing in confined places - but he saw no need to deny the request outright.  He could be careful and thoughtful, just as Garak could be sentimental and surprising.

Standing forward, he aligned himself with Garak’s lips, following the minute curve of them as Garak began to smile, before turning his hand to allow access.  Garak stretched upward, and placed kisses all along Bashir’s length, earning pleasant little shivers and mumbles of his name.  He lapped at the glans without closing his lips - in a rare showing of self-awareness of his limitations - and reached to hold Bashir’s hip.  Bashir resisted the urge to take Garak’s head in his hands, to move his hips even _slightly_ forward, eager to help Garak enjoy this as much as he was able.

“I _know_ you won’t want to swallow it,” Bashir said, completely unoffended by the cultural disparity.  

“Oh?” led Garak, drawing the noise into a long, teasing lick up Bashir’s shaft.

“No, no.  It’s, er…” each breath was costly, and he had to forego a more professional explanation, “it’s bitter.  At least yours is sweet.”

Garak quirked his optical ridges in disbelief, but remained playful, and continued kissing and licking until Bashir genuinely did need to stop him.  Garak’s cheek was pressed into the cushion, and while he had not yet closed his lips, Bashir found the sensation dangerously tempting.  But he knew, in the same way he did not like the whipping, Garak would not like continuing as they were.

So, he took a step backward and took hold of his length, cutting off Garak’s contact.

“You and I do not indulge each other,” he said sternly.  And he did not want to ask a leading question, so he settled on repeating, “What would you like to do now, Elim?”

Garak wiped his mouth on his arm, as he had seen Bashir do several times before, and thought.  If this was an anniversary, he expected some evidence of Bashir’s mutual ownership; they _owned_ one another, by Cardassian equivalent.  Bashir had conceded to the point before, on account of Garak changing several key terms - Garak would do as he was told, and Bashir would _willingly_ help him do more.

“I would like to be marked as your own,” he said, without embarrassment.

“Very good, Elim.”

This was not an indulgence for either of them, and was something they had done before, though not frequently.  Bashir found something indescribably good in a messy, urgently achieved orgasm, while Garak enjoyed both being claimed and being cleaned afterward.  It was equally appealing, even as it set them firmly in their respective roles of power-exchange; perfect for the anniversary of such a bond.

Bashir took in the sight he was responsible for - of Garak flattened into the bed, panting, eyes wide - and finalized his plan.  He moved to stand at the front side of the frame, staring down directly into Garak’s eyes.  Then, he slipped one finger beneath the taut fabric of the blindfold, testing the strength of the tie.  Oh, he was eager to demonstrate all he had learned about love - and especially _Cardassian love_ \- in the preceding year.  Stimulation started with the mind, and the symbolism existed in the gentle curve of Garak’s _chufa_.

Without warning - aside from a sudden, sharp inhale - Bashir slid his penis to rest between the fabric and Garak’s forehead, adjusting himself to press inside the ridge comfortably.  This would be the place he would spill himself first, and Garak came to understand this even in the silence.

Garak reached up with his hands bending over his head, and gripped Bashir’s hips eagerly, helping him to thrust.  The movements had to be small, tight, and well-controlled, which Bashir provided with precision and delicate expertise.  One of Garak’s hands crept inward, following the dip of Bashir’s hip-bone, seeking guidance until Bashir allowed him to hold his shaft again.  As Bashir thrusted, Garak pumped his cock up and down in an offset rhythm, and Bashir fought to keep from stifling all of his breaths and slamming his eyes shut.

The first drops of his semen dribbled out as an offering, settling in the deepest hollow of the _chufa_.  

“Ah- _ahh_ ,” sighed Garak, luxuriating in the sudden warmth.  

Bashir took a partial step backward, and wrung several more streams from his cock, leaving the _chufa_ brimming.  

“Don’t you spill that,” he said, and Garak nodded as if the command was precious.

Gripping himself restrictively, Bashir returned to the bed, and nipped at Garak’s aural ridge, tempting him to tip his head to the side.  But Garak remained firm, and stared longingly, waiting for Bashir to go on.  

Next, Bashir’s focus gravitated to the _chula_.  But he was not going to repeat the same process - what was the fun in that?  While Garak _did_ like a pattern, he did not like pure predictability.  It was clear to him that Bashir was claiming him in the traditional progression, so he did not mind variation on this theme.

In fact, he welcomed it.

He held Bashir close, and rubbed his back when he settled to lay down atop his chest.  With his eyes shut, he sought out Garak’s _chula_ , and began to wet it with his tongue.  Garak continued sighing, while Bashir stroked up and down, forcing the ridge to swell up and meet his touch.  Then, when it was pliant, Bashir bit down, hard, without warning.  While his teeth were clasped, he closed his lips and gave suction, making a purple mark to match those administered by the whip.  

Bashir could not keep himself effectively in hand any longer, so he made an inquisitive nod and waited for Garak to return it.  This was achieved in an instant, and he reached with his other hand to part Garak’s folds while he pressed himself inside.  He remained still, letting Garak’s slit constrict around him while he continued fondling Garak’s aching _chula_ between his teeth.  His ministrations were causing the marks to darken nicely, and an unbidden feeling of pride entered his head; _he_ had done this, and it felt nothing like connecting a whip to his partner’s skin.

Garak shifted beneath him pleasantly, curving one arm along his side for Bashir to _nest_ in, and he took advantage of the kind gesture.  He only moved again when he deemed the claim complete, resting up on folded elbows to admire his work before finally beginning to thrust.  Rocking inside deeply, Bashir reached for Garak’s cock, and took it gently between his fingers, and forced it down into the _chuva_.  It twitched and it leaked, until Bashir knelt up at a sharper angle, and soothed it with the shaft of his own.

Despite the warmth, a chill ran through Garak, and the finely tuned mechanism in his mind became caught on one thing alone.

“Julian, I…” he fought for breath, and Bashir kissed just his bottom lip while they waited, “I don’t… need pain, now--” _now_ , and Bashir kissed him full on the mouth, “-- and I may never… need it again.”

“ _Darling_ ,” said Bashir, surprised. “Let me _take care of_ you.”

Remaining steady on his arms, Bashir began to vary his thrusts in their depth and intensity.  Garak was not passive in his enjoyment; he wrapped his arms around Bashir’s back, feeling the finer points of his spine beneath his palms, and he pulled their bodies closer together.  They engaged not in a competition, but in a mutually-supported _need_ to find further stimulation.  Garak held and stroked, and murmured long, sweet, poetic lines into Bashir’s ear.  And Bashir moved, and kissed all he could reach of Garak’s neck and chest, while soothing the lash-marks with soft brushes of his fingers.

When this wandering led back to Garak’s cock, Bashir stroked it urgently, keeping the head aligned with the rim of the _chuva_.  He intended for them to climax together, both serving and satisfying each other at once.  There were no words left between them, anymore, just desperate breaths and stalling kisses, and then, at last, they cried out together, into each other’s space.

Bashir continued his movement until he was certain Garak was sated, and, at this point, he withdrew and pumped his own cock, so the final streams of his release spattered over Garak’s, mixing and dribbling to rest within the _chuva_.  He was careful not to stain the newly-forming bruises, and leaned down eagerly to kiss these when all was finished, attentively removing Garak’s semen with his lips and tongue.  He expected this action would lose him the privilege of kissing Garak again afterward, but this did not prove true; Garak was as surprising as ever, and he helped Bashir to rest comfortably between his body and the edge of the mattress.

On its automated program, the mattress swiveled gently and returned to its original position, and Garak reclined against the headboard that was built into the wall, sitting up and folding his arms protectively over Bashir.  When he sat up, the fluid in his _chufa_ could not help but spill downward - more quickly than wax or bathwater - running along the delicate, pointed ridge of his nose and well into a space he could scent-taste, even without his mouth being open.  Bashir offered an apologetic kiss to Garak’s cheek, and began to wipe and scrub the whitish fluid away with the pad of his thumb.  

Garak caught Bashir’s lips as he prepared to pull back, and shut his eyes while he considered the lingering effects of the taste.

“Nothing like you at all,” he decided, without further explanation.

Bashir soothed him, then wiped his soiled hands along his own body before retiring to the bathroom to gather Garak’s range of cleaning implements.  He returned with a soft, heated sponge in its own little water-basin, and he wrung this out over Garak’s chest, letting the water cascade down to his belly before soaking it back up into the sponge and repeating the process.

“Mmm,” sighed Garak, “that feels _wonderful_.”

“S-so do you...?” Bashir stammered, suddenly unsure of himself, and blushing at all they had done tonight.

Feeling satisfied with this expression, Garak closed his eyes and allowed his partner to continue working in peace.  They were quiet and gentle until Bashir was finished, and Garak could have easily fallen asleep, had he not been so _happy_ to receive care and attention.  

“You will stay longer than just _tonight_ , won’t you?” asked Garak, increasingly expectant each time Bashir came over for an _encounter_.  

Garak had built them a _home_ , and he did not blame Bashir for being hesitant to use it for its intended purpose - there was _war_ to think about, and convenience, and the perception of his fellow crew, and it was not as if this was a _proper_ home, either, like a chain but not an anchor.  But Garak’s mind did not always work along those lines; he thought it was _time_ for this, that a home was the last thing they had left to share.  

And Bashir had thought about this too, and thought such a suggestion would have intimidated Garak, so he never voiced it.  He could hardly voice it _now_ , he was so thrilled to hear it without solicitation.

“I will, yes,” Bashir promised, as he picked up Garak’s arm by the wrist, and guided it through the sleeve of his copper robe.

With Garak dressed, the strap carefully and loosely tied around his belly, Bashir slipped into his own robe and returned to his place at Garak’s side.  They kissed leisurely, uninterrupted by the passing of time, lit only by the twinkling glow of the stars they could see through the viewport.  

Garak could usually recall the precise point at which he fell asleep, where his thoughts were immediately ransacked by troubled dreams, and left all out of order when he awoke.  But tonight, the process was pleasant, and he remembered _only_ the point at which he woke up again, with Bashir’s closed eyelids to stare across at.  His partner’s smile was peaceful, so Garak nuzzled against his shoulder before trying, more consciously, to find sleep again.

“Mmm…” Bashir mumbled, as the colder skin touched his, and the stiff filament tickled his neck, “Elim, darling.  What time is it?  I need to go t--”

“Shh, shh… you’re taken care of.”

The computer provided an answer on the display screen, and Garak took the opportunity to submit a request for Bashir to switch shifts, that morning, so they could sleep together in their home a few hours more.

*****

_25:59:57_

_25:59:58_

_25:59:59_

 

_00:00:00_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I think I at least made mention of all the prompts I received, so that was fun. Like doing a scavenger hunt in my own story, really enjoyable tbh. 
> 
> Thanks for reading this and sharing your thoughts with me, it means the world <3


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